Morten Harket - Brodsky Tune

Studio record Morten Harket - Brodsky TuneBosnia Tune As you sip your brand of scotch, crush a roach, or scratch your crotch, as your hand adjusts your tie, people die. In the towns with funny names, hit by bullets, caught in flames, by and large not knowing why, people die. In small places you don’t know of, yet big for having no chance to scream or say goodbye, people die. People die as you elect brand-new dudes who preach neglect, self-restraint, etc. — whereby people die. Too far off to practice love for thy neighbor/brother Slav, where your cherubs dread to fly, people die. While the statues disagree, Cain’s version, history for its fuel tends to buy those who die. As you watch the athletes score, check your latest statement, or sing your child a lullaby, people die. Time, whose sharp bloodthirsty quill parts the killed from those who kill, will pronounce the latter band as your