Оригинален текст
It's not impossible to see the infinite sillouhette that tore right
through him.
The ghosts in every town, they just don't see, the silver lining
found in that corporate cloud.
Pockets full of spent bullets, old train tickets, and pictures
of the sun that couldn't warm up those winter eyes.
It's not impossible to breath with flooded lungs, or winterize
the scenes that leave you numb.
A tire fire in the night, a painting that never dries, a wooden
shield under machine gun fire.
Pockets full of spent bullets, old train tickets, and pictures
of the setting sun across a desert sprawl while hangin at the
governers ball