Translation: The Great KAT. Funeral March (Piano Sonata In Bb Minor, Arranged For Guitar).
Translation: KAT. Funeral March (Piano Sonata In Bb Minor, Arranged.
piano] This song though does differ strikingly from the genuine folk ballad in that in this song the words which are supposed to rhyme - actually do. [piano
It's clear to us this love affair Has self combusted everywhere And I don't feel so debonair My piano collects dust A funeral with no mourners I wish
with theyself, what they need to do is kill theyself Blaow, suicide is a good [Incomprehensible] At your funeral for free I play the piano Rest in pieces
say is true? Saturday morning Eighteenth of December I cannot remember the last time that I saw Such a young ballerina In love with the loveless In tune with a tuneless old upright piano
children back up to their tree The scabs outside still laughed at their spree And the children that died there was seventy-three The piano played a slow funeral
I was born in a landslide In the jungle land I can play a piano With a funeral hand Ooh salt in the wound, making me blue Ooh salt in the wound, play
Stop all the clocks, cut of the telephone Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone Silence the pianos and with a muffled drum Bring out the coffin
Frank zappa (guitar) Tony duran (slide guitar) George duke (tack piano) Sal marquez (trumpet, vocals) Chris peterson (vocals) Joel peskin (tenor saxophone
next to a small manual projector.) THE LITTLE BOY The era of Ragtime had run out, as if history were no more than a tune on a player piano. But we did
We Got To Win Track 24 2:40 Sonny Boy Williamson I (John Lee) (Sonny Boy Williamson I) Sonny Boy Williamson - vcl and hca Eddie Boyd - piano, Bill
in the game made room for the real I see ya crew in the field, I pick 'em off easy have ya momma at the funeral queezy believe me half of you fag niggas
go up north to play at his funeral And his wife is there In some chapel she's picked out And there's not even an organ I have to play on some broken upright piano
our children back up to their tree The scabs outside still laughed at their spree And the children that died there were seventy three The piano played a slow funeral
Wasted journeys, time spent better knowing nothing and looks, they don't help. Prying eyes wander west to where oceans meet gold, and you wonder why my
questo mondo infernale per venirti a salvare non pensare sia un male e in diretta ci siamo? sto guidando un'autobomba fammi un po un primo piano! Sono
children back up to their tree, The scabs outside still laughed at their spree, And the children that died there were seventy-three. The piano played a slow funeral