Stephen Fretwell. Dead. Zeneszám

sun blushed roses are next to the bed
i?ve drunk too much coffee, it?s gone to my head
walk me down the side street and hold my hand
it looks like I?m leading but we both know I cant
for a week and a night i?ve been out of my mind
but please don?t get me wrong, oh

thirteen red roses that will soon be dead
should I box them up for you darling, perhaps make a hat for your head
walk me down ground street with a glass in your hand
talking about behaviour but I don?t understand
what you want from my hands anymore like before
but please don?t get me wrong, oh
whatever that means

and you wont ever see past yourself or past me
and the lines each one?s drawn thirty-four, fifty-one
but please don?t get me wrong, oh
whatever that means