Status: most errors are intentional.
Outlaws
(they've branded us enough)
Escape is the journey. Escape is the game. Escape is the prize.
We run run run under the burning sand and scorch our feet on a mirror of the sun; we seek solace in an oasis /of water/ /of cool rafters and a bed/ /of sex and of us/
COCKED and LOADED we pull we aim we fire - PERFECT shots every single time.
The songs of gunfire ring true and through the afternoon the hot evenings the mildewed mornings and we rock to them. Lulled by the sense of spentness more than a fiddle's twang.
Rough and foul is your breath like spittle and aging curses. The only Red your mouth ever touched was the Reddest Red that's ever been bled. No other Red like that, in any other Red part of the earth.
Spin that rope around men that roam like cattle, stampeding left right turn straight up ahead into the narrows. They call us OUTLAW, but what are we fighting for? What law is there left to break?
OUTLAW, and we escape. We escape from anything there is to love.
We run run run under the burning sand and scorch our feet on a mirror of the sun; we seek solace in an oasis /of water/ /of cool rafters and a bed/ /of sex and of us/
COCKED and LOADED we pull we aim we fire - PERFECT shots every single time.
The songs of gunfire ring true and through the afternoon the hot evenings the mildewed mornings and we rock to them. Lulled by the sense of spentness more than a fiddle's twang.
Rough and foul is your breath like spittle and aging curses. The only Red your mouth ever touched was the Reddest Red that's ever been bled. No other Red like that, in any other Red part of the earth.
Spin that rope around men that roam like cattle, stampeding left right turn straight up ahead into the narrows. They call us OUTLAW, but what are we fighting for? What law is there left to break?
OUTLAW, and we escape. We escape from anything there is to love.