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Tota In The Moya


Waiting time will fly, aching shoulders cry,
Sizing up the sky, knowing when to die,
Wake up, judgment is gone, and lighting is bad.

Southward winds have blown, fertile soil you've grown,
Asking answered not, granting all you've got,
Output lone frontier groaned dead, boxed and produced.

Talking down to God, old men screaming loud,
Sinners eat your words, gather up in herds,
Old face, streaking down image and the new way.

Waiting time will fly, aching shoulders cry,
Sizing up the sky, knowing when to die,



Wake up, judgment is gone, and lighting is bad.

Songs I sing of this that and you
Won't it break through.
Climaxed on the wind, joined the din,
We can't hear you.

Forward wards will reach
As they teach, is it all new?
Silence steals the waves
As they break, don't they speak truth?

Now it's taking too long,
Write words for this song,
Not getting along.

Watchful sentry smile
At the grile burning lightless,
Hairless people run
Watch the sun solar nonsense.

Strong, this part must be strong,
Not getting along,
Three tolls on the gong.

Laughing through the night, wasted fight
Dried up car wash.
Linger let lie low, let me go,
Tuberous green squash.

Fall from ninety miles
Into smiles;
Throw up good gosh.

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