Stones
would play inside her head. And where she slept, they made her bed.
And she would ache for love and get but stones. La la la la la la la la la.
Lordy, child, a good day’s coming. And I’ll be there to let the sun in
and being lost is worth the coming home, la la la la la la la la la, on stones.
You and me, a time for planting. You and me, a harvest
granting
the every prayer ever prayed for just two wild flowers that grow
la la la la la la la la la on stones.
|
|
|