Woorden:
Bombs Over Providence

Ash and palm, burnt black, caked to my forehead, for we are the children of faith in dead gods. Fear not bedrooms nor states, as they are merely the

Miles 'tween and what I'll see yet, but I still shudder. The engine's struggling. The snowy drifts of the home we left betray the warmth of the hearts

Cast out with the first of winter. Coldest night since they last raised busfare. Seems fitting. In this city it only ever gets this cold after shelters

I've been falling harder with this city's decline. And I know I'm not getting any smarter. Every blackened skyline has some failure in mind that rains

Here we are; another school night proclamation of the greater good. And what's more, I've the gall to curse and moan about the state of my upset. Calling

I awoke so invincible the state indivisible hasn't had the chance to finish me yet. The force of law notwithstanding moans, groans and the sting of student

Know I'm still alive because I'm bleeding. Nine lives and three sheets to the wind. The story goes our hero boasts little more than a theory in its death

Hey brother can you spare about a half a quart of rye? Ontario water's killed before and I fear I'm the next one on its mind. I'm damned to review front

comfort, and you're not the sitcom start The Further Adventures of John Q. Forgettable? (laughs na na na it's over, roll over...)" Jones: ...? Ratchenslatt