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Roses grow to be food for worms
poets love that shit.
Microphones keep spitting songs
no one seems to need
Not so cold in this cold December
as Decembers used to be
Not so cold by the dying embers
of the boy who once was me
Try me,
try to
drive me your way
poets love that shit.
Microphones keep spitting songs
no one seems to need
Not so cold in this cold December
as Decembers used to be
Not so cold by the dying embers
of the boy who once was me
Try me,
try to
drive me your way
Lyrics submitted by Monkeysan
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