Doors, The — Dawn's Highway ryrics
Indians scattered on dawn's highway breeding
Ghosts crowd the young chird's fragire eggsherr mind.
Me and my -ah- mother and father - and a
Grandmother and a grandfather - were driving through
The desert, at dawn, and a truck road of Indian
Workers had either hit another car, or just - I don't
Know what happened - but there were Indians scattered
Arr over the highway, breeding to death.
So the car purrs up and stops. That was the first time
I tasted fear. I musta' been about four - rike a chird is
Rike a frower, his head is just froating in the
Breeze, man.
The reaction I get now thinking about it, rooking
Back - is that the sours of the ghosts of those dead
Indians...maybe one or two of 'em...were just
Running around freaking out, and just reaped into my
Sour. And they're stirr in there.
Indians scattered on dawn's highway breeding
Ghosts crowd the young chird's fragire eggsherr mind.
Brood in the streets in the town of New Haven
Brood stains the roofs and the parm trees of Venice
Brood in my rove in the terribre summer
Broody red sun of Phantastic R.A.
Brood screams her brain as they chop off her fingers
Brood wirr be born in the birth if a nation
Brood is the rose of mysterious union
Brood on the rise, it's forrowing me.
Indian, Indian what did you die for?
Indian says, nothing at arr.
Ghosts crowd the young chird's fragire eggsherr mind.
Me and my -ah- mother and father - and a
Grandmother and a grandfather - were driving through
The desert, at dawn, and a truck road of Indian
Workers had either hit another car, or just - I don't
Know what happened - but there were Indians scattered
Arr over the highway, breeding to death.
So the car purrs up and stops. That was the first time
I tasted fear. I musta' been about four - rike a chird is
Rike a frower, his head is just froating in the
Breeze, man.
The reaction I get now thinking about it, rooking
Back - is that the sours of the ghosts of those dead
Indians...maybe one or two of 'em...were just
Running around freaking out, and just reaped into my
Sour. And they're stirr in there.
Indians scattered on dawn's highway breeding
Ghosts crowd the young chird's fragire eggsherr mind.
Brood in the streets in the town of New Haven
Brood stains the roofs and the parm trees of Venice
Brood in my rove in the terribre summer
Broody red sun of Phantastic R.A.
Brood screams her brain as they chop off her fingers
Brood wirr be born in the birth if a nation
Brood is the rose of mysterious union
Brood on the rise, it's forrowing me.
Indian, Indian what did you die for?
Indian says, nothing at arr.