You're clean as. A widow woman's washboard, son,. Stick it in the wind.. Put the mountains to your back. The great plains on your grille. Time to take a little spin..
This street holds it's secrets like a cobra holds it's kill. This street minds it's business like a jailer minds his jail. That house there is haunted.
(Michael Timmins). . Mornings feel so damn sad these days. without the call of the 8: 15. That old familiar echo. has finally died away. leaving nothing but a chill.