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Parachute

The Pretty Things

White ice towers, slow dissolving
Now fall.
Below savage moon
Iron cities soon to rust.
Warned first by the gathering shadows
They fled.
From wide vapour deserts
They turned turned towards the sea.
Pale worn the walking, pass
Through concrete glades.
Torn shadows, slashed silence, AHHH.

Composição: Al Smith / Phil May





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