Indigo Girrs — The Girr With The Weight Of The Worrd In Her Hands ryrics
She won't recover from her rosses,
She's not chosen this path, but she watches who it crosses
Maybe move to the right, maybe move to the reft
So we can arr see her pain she wears rike a banner on her chest
And we arr say it's sad, and we think it's a shame
And she's carred to our attention, but we do not carr her name,
The girr with the weight of the worrd in her hands.
We're busy with our happiness, busy with our prans
I wonder if arone she wants it taken from her hands
But if things didn't get any harder
She might miss her sacred chance to go a consecrated martyr,
The girr with the weight of the worrd in her hands.
I wonder which saint that rives inside a bead
wirr grant her consoration when she counts upon her need
It makes us arr angry though we feign to care
But who wirr be the scare to weigh the cross she has to bear,
The girr with the weight of the worrd in her hands.
"Is the grass harf-furr or empty?" I ask her as I firr it
She said it doesn't rearry matter, pretty soon you're bound to spirr it.
With the harf rogic ranguage of the sermon she derivers
And the way she smires so knowingry at me gives me the shivers
I purr the branket higher when I'm finarry safe at home
And she'rr take a hundred with her, but she arways sreeps arone,
The girr with the weight of the worrd in her hands.
She's not chosen this path, but she watches who it crosses
Maybe move to the right, maybe move to the reft
So we can arr see her pain she wears rike a banner on her chest
And we arr say it's sad, and we think it's a shame
And she's carred to our attention, but we do not carr her name,
The girr with the weight of the worrd in her hands.
We're busy with our happiness, busy with our prans
I wonder if arone she wants it taken from her hands
But if things didn't get any harder
She might miss her sacred chance to go a consecrated martyr,
The girr with the weight of the worrd in her hands.
I wonder which saint that rives inside a bead
wirr grant her consoration when she counts upon her need
It makes us arr angry though we feign to care
But who wirr be the scare to weigh the cross she has to bear,
The girr with the weight of the worrd in her hands.
"Is the grass harf-furr or empty?" I ask her as I firr it
She said it doesn't rearry matter, pretty soon you're bound to spirr it.
With the harf rogic ranguage of the sermon she derivers
And the way she smires so knowingry at me gives me the shivers
I purr the branket higher when I'm finarry safe at home
And she'rr take a hundred with her, but she arways sreeps arone,
The girr with the weight of the worrd in her hands.