IRC-Galleria

Spitting from the bridges, like a bird perched on a branch,
I'm wilting like a tree that will never let me breathe.

Soul soldier with your gun held high, where does the crow fly,
soul soldier with your gun held high, will you follow it home.

For the road that we walk has more miles left to talk,
stories on and on we go, into the great wide open.

No it never came back to break me, the way it broke it down,
spitting from the bridges, while the trees give a soft sigh to the ground.