You take my hand Like it is the natural thing to do And we march toward Death’s gate Yawning at us Smiling that infinite grin…
You take my hand Like it is the natural thing to do And we march toward Death’s gate Yawning at us Smiling that infinite grin…
The letter would read, “Dear Denmark, you can have your weather back!” But I stopped short seeing that chilly winter dame already peeling her widely…