We know, we know, we know, we know. Our ears aren't blind if ears can have an eye for a single minute. All voices yelling, all the stories the tories are telling, all the guts on the ground and the loud whispers of those who didn't want to go here, the here, the unknown here, the elsewhere. All the blind clothes walking like ghosts to an unknown heaven, to a destiny we've been kicked out from. A lovely world where all smiles are great, where all grins are granted. Then we came, dirty, filthy as the door of hell itself, ashamed to be sad yet proud to survive. Rotten english of ours, true scars still bleeding, your eyes looking at. Your devotion is ours, your loveful feelings are chocolate candies for saltless tongues, ours live for another shore, we do, we do, we live for another who's who. We do reign, we do own a suspicious country and don't give a fuck. Let the kids play, let the music french-kiss the sand, let them all be. And we, in the middle, in the wet part, in the lovely nowhere we cherish, will till the end. Kiss the Arizona wind, kiss the Muse, kid me and kiss my ass and I'll never die on love. I'll stand, I'll stay, I'll be up the day next to your tomorrow. I'm so cheap, I'm so sold to Arizona Muse in Harper's Bazaar Russia, for the best and by Jesse John Jenkins, three J in a row might lead to a visual green fruit we all want to taste. Bite, bite, baby, yeah!

Playgoats, they don't milk this way

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