Вершы:
The Doors An American Prayer I

(& where were you in our lean hour) Milking your moustache? or grinding a flower? I'm sick of dour faces Staring at me from the T.V. Tower. I want roses

sailors (& where were you in our lean hour) Milking your moustache? or grinding a flower? I'm sick of dour faces Staring at me from the T.V. Tower. I

the wilderness. I will never treat you mean Never start no kind of scene I'll tell you every place and person that I've been. Always a playground instructor

drunk a big party last night back going back in all directions sleeping these insane hours I'll never wake up in a good mood again I'm sick of these

I am on Christmas eve This silent holy night And I reach up to the stars for you I pray that you're alright Hey mister, send my baby home This December I

Pac and a nigga like me gotta stay high Thug Luv till i die keep my prayer to the sky but I'm still in the hood smoke and fry So I beg the lord to

I make up my mind to be, Like I'm gonna be a daddy whose in the mix, And I'm gonna be a husband who stays legit, And I pray that I'm an artist who

stairways And I ask myself, why do I still pray? When will it end? And who fucking cares? I swear to God I did what I could I practically begged you, I

observe i got a pro-keds box full of layman's terms, it goes hey, peace, pray for the plagued, major relief and capacious rains, but just cuz i don't