Pulsing pulsing, There's a beat in his arm still. Pulsing pulsing, Like the throb of an anthill. Pulsing pulsing, No death in the rain. I've been washing my hands, In the stuff I wash my brains.
Pulsing pulsing, There's a lump in his throat still. Pulsing pulsing, At the site of a crash throw. Pulsing pulsing, No push in the vein. I've been washing my hands, In the stuff I wash my brains.
Printer Friendly Version