Isla

Who can ever slake, those who are ruled, wind rocks and shakes, in our sorry bones, is a golden certitude, the fire gently warms, like a lovely trade , butter memories exude, all the starts we make, who will take us home, driven by drunken fools, now the lat bus gone, what will our Ma say, do we rattle our jewels, mister give us a break, standing by the road, feel something moving, we are bound to roam, is our spirit come ?