ɪ ᴘʀᴇꜰᴇʀ ʙᴜɢꜱ

I want to cry rivers.
I want to scream storms.
I want to show you the thoughts you make me think.

But the weather’s too good,
and you’re in a nice mood.

But the sun will rise again,
and down goes the moon,
and the bugs will sooner eat my mind
before I give a piece to you.