Tłumaczenie: Waits, Tom. Dear Lie.
Dear Tom, I don?t feel so good this morning I woke up and my poor head was pounding Feels like I?m all out of sorts in every way Can?t quite recall just
know just what to say, dear Tom I never had a friend like you, to tell my woes and worries to You really are a dream come true, dear Tom Dear Tom, there
Dear blank, I'm sorry, I blanked you're blank But you'd understand if you knew how much beer that I drank I know today is going too fucking slow So take
know dat? Wah Dedication, we show dat, wah Chuckin' MC's like stones Bad boy forever like Sean Puffy Combs Inside, outside, runnin' all zones Set trend, get girls like Tom
crack A regular John, she met her through Tom She passed out with the syringe still stuck in her arm Dying a slow death, oh, she losing her dear mind
fender and in the back too I got a broken taillight and I'll smash you, bitch Get outta my way, we got clown luv Phat props to the lyrical Tom Dub It
I could not get back Ya, my way was hard to find Can't sell your soul for piece of mind Square one my slate is clear Rest your head on me my dear It
's on nigga Sigel hard like corn liquor I take you out this world like you was born nigga Butt-naked, covered in blood, gaspin' for air, clingin' for dear
People making list, buying special gifts It's time to be kind to one and all It's that time of year when good friends are dear And you wish you could
When he was too drunk to walk Then came the day We were sent away We got our papers Posted trough the door And sent off to war Dear old Tom He'
Tom Drake/Bob Shane When I sailed into Portland town, I called upon my dear. Her window held a candle. It's light shone bright and clear. I walked up
merchants, May you make the yuletide pay. Angels we have heard on high Tell us to go out and buy! So let the raucous sleigh bells jingle, Hail our dear
line. Oh, poll tax, how I love ya, how I love ya, My dear old poll tax. Won'tcha come with me to alabammy, Back to the arms of my dear ol' mammy,
. I hold your hand in mine, dear, I press it to my lips. I take a healthy bite From your dainty fingertips. My joy would be complete, dear, If you were
Next we have the dear-hearts-and-gentle-people's school of songwriting, in which the singer tells you that, no matter how much sin and vice and crime
this genre is called the masochism tango. I ache for the touch of your lips, dear, But much more for the touch of your whips, dear. You can raise welts
we'll soon reach senility And lose the ability. Your teeth will start to go, dear, Your waist will start to spread. In twenty years or so, dear, I'll