Motemas

Blue Jeans

 Blue jeans, white shirt

Walked into the room you know you made my eyes burn

It was like, James Dean, for sure

You're so fresh to death and sick as ca-cancer

You were sorta punk rock, I grew up on hip hop

But you fit me better than my favourite sweater, and I know

That love is mean, and love hurts

But I still remember that day we met in december, oh baby!

Big dreams, gangster

Said you had to leave to start your life over

I was like, “No please, stay here,

We don't need no money we can make it all work,”

But he headed out on sunday, said he'd come home monday

I stayed up waitin', anticipatin', and pacin'

But he was chasing paper

"Caught up in the game" ‒ that was the last I heard

Ph; Private