the memory of making love
and they moan and cry all loud
but it comes through the window like a whistle or a whisper
under the bed and little children think it's a monster
i'm soaked in my own blood when i die
where i'll be declared brain dead and heart dead in the vatican
and they moan and cry all loud
but it comes through the window like a whistle or a whisper
under the bed and little children think it's a monster
i'm soaked in my own blood when i die
where i'll be declared brain dead and heart dead in the vatican
.
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