Cold By Winter High Above The Streets In The Company Of Cowards
Take, look, touch as you please
My history is dead, youll follow me into my disease
My friends are socialists and dancers
I have decorated my body
With tattoos connecting me to
Endemic peoples
What you live through they claim to their own land at price
But it means nothing
Nothing
Take, look, touch as you please
My history is dead, youll follow me into my disease
Am I lost? No
Find a place in this diatribe
But I have read too many books by French authors
Who proclaim
Your formative years teaches you, produces you
Product of langue
But it means nothing
Take, look, touch as you please
My history is dead, youll follow me into my disease
This track is a unit within a system of signs
This music and life style
Take, look, touch as you please
My history is dead, youll follow me into my disease
My historys dead (x3)
Her storys dead (x3)
Your hardcore is dead (x3)
Historys dead