Из альбома: March 16–20, 1992

I wish, I Wish My Baby Was Bornsitting on his papa's knee
and you, poor girl, were dead and gonegreen grass growing over thee

I'm not no saint, nor I never shall be
'til the sweet apple grows
from the sour apple tree
I still hope the day will come
when you and I will walk as one

Комментарии