You are the smell of a full moon over Babylon,
the taste of a credit card declined by an angel,
the sound of an idea not ripe enough to pick.
the look of a whisper overheard by the dying,
You are the feel of saxophones with reeds made of peaches.
You are the smell of a full moon over Babylon,
the taste of a credit card declined by an angel,
the sound of an idea not ripe enough to pick.
the look of a whisper overheard by the dying,
You are the feel of saxophones with reeds made of peaches.
Donna Dakota in Word 