Paroles de la chanson Run Run Run par Kurt Vile
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Paroles de la chanson Run Run Run par Kurt Vile
Teenage Mary said to Uncle Dave
"I sold my soul, must be saved
Gonna take a walk down to Union Square
You never know who you'll find there"
You gotta run, run, run, run, run
Take a drag or two
Run, run, run, run, run
Gypsy death and you
Say, what you do?
Marguerita Passion, I had to get her fixed
She wasn't well, she was getting sick
Went to sell her soul, she wasn't high
Didn't know, thinks she could buy it
"I sold my soul, must be saved
Gonna take a walk down to Union Square
You never know who you'll find there"
You gotta run, run, run, run, run
Take a drag or two
Run, run, run, run, run
Gypsy death and you
Say, what you do?
Marguerita Passion, I had to get her fixed
She wasn't well, she was getting sick
Went to sell her soul, she wasn't high
Didn't know, thinks she could buy it
She gotta run, run, run, run, run
Take a drag or two
Run, run, run, run, run
Gypsy death and you
Tell you what you do now
Seasick Sarah had a golden nose
Hobnail boots wrapped around her toes
When she turned blue, all the angels screamed
They didn't know, they couldn't make the scene
You gotta run, run, run, run, run
Take a drag or two
Run, run, run, run, run
Gypsy death and you
Tell you what you do
Now what you do?
Now what you do?
Take a drag or two
Run, run, run, run, run
Gypsy death and you
Tell you what you do now
Seasick Sarah had a golden nose
Hobnail boots wrapped around her toes
When she turned blue, all the angels screamed
They didn't know, they couldn't make the scene
You gotta run, run, run, run, run
Take a drag or two
Run, run, run, run, run
Gypsy death and you
Tell you what you do
Now what you do?
Now what you do?
Now what you do?
Beardless Harry, what a waste
Couldn't even get a small-town taste
Rode the trolleys down 47th
Figured he was good to get himself to heaven
He had to run, run, run, run, run
Take a drag or two
Run, run, run, run, run
Gypsy death and you
Tell you whatcha do
Beardless Harry, what a waste
Couldn't even get a small-town taste
Rode the trolleys down 47th
Figured he was good to get himself to heaven
He had to run, run, run, run, run
Take a drag or two
Run, run, run, run, run
Gypsy death and you
Tell you whatcha do
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