De små, små orden
Nej. Nu orkar jag seriöst inte mer.
Trött på att sabba allt.
Skjut mig.
If you think love will come towards you like a warm summerbreeze
You've got your head among the clouds and you will never be free
You'll spend many nights alone, oh, I know
If I told you my stories and sang you my songs
Would you laugh at me
Would you pity me
What would you say if I asked of you
Not of accident, out of loneliness
Trött på att sabba allt.
Skjut mig.
If you think love will come towards you like a warm summerbreeze
You've got your head among the clouds and you will never be free
You'll spend many nights alone, oh, I know
If I told you my stories and sang you my songs
Would you laugh at me
Would you pity me
What would you say if I asked of you
Not of accident, out of loneliness
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