No shadow. No stars. there's no moon and. No cars. November. It only believes. In a pile of dead leaves. And a moon. That's the color of bone. . No prayers for November.
there's a blur drizzle down the plateglass. as a neon swizzle stick stirrin up the sultry night air. and a yellow biscuit of a buttery cue ball moon. rollin' maverick across an obsidian sky.
Let's put a new coat of paint on this lonesome old town. Set 'em up, we'll be knockin' em down. You wear a dress, baby, I'll wear a tie. We'll laugh at that old bloodshot moon in that burgundy sky.
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