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  • 作曲 : Kurt Wagner
    All the leaves have turned to leather
    I have lost faith in the spring
    Withered like a dark balloon
    Oh, I hear no robin sing
    Ushered with the shower still
    Oh, the rain falls off the leaves
    And a rim of shady light
    It forms these patterns on my hands
    I can see your ring
    Is it camouflaged or etched
    Tell the king
    To me this errand sent
    To call such a hole
    In the kingdom of the Lord
    That we are afraid
    Where there is no fear
    Oh, he fell into a slumber
    And did not wake until the dawn
    To see a band of orange clouds
    Cross the middle of the sky
    Oh, he got into a fluster
    He felt a tightening in his leg
    With such finesse he waived a hornet
    From a wine glass
    And tiny fluffs of the feathered life
    And you wander forth with your insolence and wine
    To your fruitless mourn to them that cannot hear
    And what the **** am I doing here?
    In the ghettos of Chicago
    Amid the poverty and despair
    Inside the game hens
    Were the giblets in a plastic bag
    A cocktail which consisted
    Of his gin and her vermouth
    Garnished together with the pearl onions
    Dying eyes gleamed forth their ashy light
    Tiny fluffs of the feathered life
    And you wander forth with your insolence and wine
    To your fruitless mourn to them that cannot hear
  • 作曲 : Kurt Wagner
    All the leaves have turned to leather
    I have lost faith in the spring
    Withered like a dark balloon
    Oh, I hear no robin sing
    Ushered with the shower still
    Oh, the rain falls off the leaves
    And a rim of shady light
    It forms these patterns on my hands
    I can see your ring
    Is it camouflaged or etched
    Tell the king
    To me this errand sent
    To call such a hole
    In the kingdom of the Lord
    That we are afraid
    Where there is no fear
    Oh, he fell into a slumber
    And did not wake until the dawn
    To see a band of orange clouds
    Cross the middle of the sky
    Oh, he got into a fluster
    He felt a tightening in his leg
    With such finesse he waived a hornet
    From a wine glass
    And tiny fluffs of the feathered life
    And you wander forth with your insolence and wine
    To your fruitless mourn to them that cannot hear
    And what the **** am I doing here?
    In the ghettos of Chicago
    Amid the poverty and despair
    Inside the game hens
    Were the giblets in a plastic bag
    A cocktail which consisted
    Of his gin and her vermouth
    Garnished together with the pearl onions
    Dying eyes gleamed forth their ashy light
    Tiny fluffs of the feathered life
    And you wander forth with your insolence and wine
    To your fruitless mourn to them that cannot hear