At the dawn’s premier light, ride up higher.
With a Shanghai sunrise, come easy rider.
It’s the black-and-white horizon that colors always misunderstand
But it’s just the way that I am.
Rowing my cool and holding your hand.
It's the end of July, young lion,
Did the oceanic wind catch your fire?
Has the electric verse on the movie screen caught your silver
Through the darkening dire river
Freeing the spirit culture had,
In the Californian run, the sand, the land.
In your fame colored eyes,
Lies the sway of the passing twenty-seven years,
Lies the May of all sadness and tears.
From the summer of the gunner,
To the feather of the hair,
To the leather in despair.
In the phenomenon quaking between paramours of violence,
Holding the dawn taking the cospirator of silence.
It's all in bloom or it was. Now is an ending.
The legend you could…
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