Превод: Том Глина. Шта Ворлд Неедс Сада је Љубав / Абрахам, Мартин и Џон.
Превод: Том Глина. Оно што је свету потребно сада је Љубав.
Listen boy Don't want to see you let a good thing Slip away You know I don't like watching Anybody make the same mistakes I made She's a real nice
got gold grill, tha shit dont stop tha hoes gonna bop, cause we gone come through and we got hard rock, yep, always lookin hooked up with tha Clay always
on, come on keep it moving here, what's your name boy? Abu Cah, well it ain't now, it's Tom Lynch Mirror, mirror what you see? Have I still got those
we got gold grill tha shit dont stop tha hoes gonna bop cause we gone come through and we got hard rock yep, always lookin, hooked up with tha clay, always
it coming off the sea As I sit here reading old Graham Greene I taste Africa on every page Then I close my eyes and see those red clay roads, and it?
I think of Andy in the cold wet clay Those three are on my mind With his comrades down beside him On that brutal day Those three are on my mind There
rest a deed Oklahoma was rich with the stench of black oil And the men who came there to drill In the sun baked clay of Indian lands There, in the desolate
around A child as pure as a mountain stream that ran through her hometown Then happened by the slick Tom Shark in his hand she was clay She got caught
my dreams There are no laws She's made of cream She's such a scream Qui bon tres bien, nails in cement A Donnie gal from mortal clay The plow is red
dug the grave four feet long And you dug it three feet deep You rolled the cold clay over her And tromped it with your feet Hang your head, Tom Dooley
love With a young lass from Gyetsid And I call 'er my dove Her name's Cushie Butterfield And she sells yellow clay And 'er cousins a muckman And they call him Tom
my window sill We'd kiss but we are made of clay You loved me most when love was young Now even the setting sun we dance beneath is made of clay The dust
(Traditional) [Chorus:] Hang down your head, Tom Dooley Hang down your head and cry Hang down your head, Tom Dooley Poor boy, you're bound to die I
(Amy Grant & Tom Hemby) We said our promises by candlelight You held my hands, I was dressed in white We were young How can we see that far? How can
the grave four feet long And you dug it three feet deep; You rolled the cold clay over her And tromped it with your feet. Hang your head, Tom Dooley
