Indian Rope Man کے بول

Fog dangling thick Can't see the right road, streets are sick The eight day mill it might grind slow But it grinds fine Indian rope man, while looking on Tells common clay he's heavenly born Retired layman looks on in scorn With a transplanted heart Kiss him quick, he has to part Indian rope man sees the times Splitting loose the edge of minds Catches losers in his line, in his line, yeah Kiss him quick, he has to part Fog dangling thick Can't see the right road, streets are sick The eight day mill it might grind slow But it grinds fine Indian rope man, while looking on Tells common clay he's heavenly born Retired layman looks on in scorn With a transplanted heart Kiss him quick, he has to part