Meester of Siberia was born and bred in Iowa, in a corn field coop behind a tree. I could never replicate, the moment i was struck by fate, I picked you up and knew you were my boy.
If you're gettin scared that there's no one there and it's making you crazy. Get high looking up at the sky, turn a shade of blue.
The snow will fall for hours into frozen teacup flowers, you break the tiny pedals with a bite.
Saturday at meadow brook, i turned you loose and you would cook up, every blade of grass beneath your paw. Time can't steal the memories, I've sewn into a waking dream, and always keep you right here inside.
And so I'll howl at the siren song til the neighbors are crazy. And I'll run looking up at the sun til it turns to the moon.
The rays are falling down on me, like satellites with broken wings, i try to catch the embers on my tongue.
I can see an opening around the bend beneath a spring, flowing up to meet you in the sky. What's the use in feeling bad when times are tough and shit goes bad? There's always something new to arrive.
There was a special way...he always knew what i was thinking before i was thinking. I hear the song as it plays, and we would sing it altogether.
Your eyes are shining down on me...and you're always my boy.