Print

There's a swarm in my stomachI think it's probably just my headAnd my girl, she's a stoneI think your mother suits me more...I calm myself on evenings with anything you smokeRest my head on the ceiling, thinkingI think your mother suits me more...It's out of my hands.I'm hidden like a stow away, I'm hidden like a stow awayYou can call me a suitcase, you can carry me aroundYou can carry me around, you can call me suitcaseYou can call me suitcase, you can carry me around... From Letras Mania