B.o.b

With your childhood flames on your midnight rug

And your Spanish manners, and your mother's drugs

And your cowboy mouth and your curfew plugs
Who among them do you think could resist you ?
Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums
Should I leave them by your gate
Oh, sad-eyed lady, should I wait ?


Para um disco destes não há ilhas desertas.