Boys

Boys, boys, boys, boys
Boys, boys, boys, boys

Boys like to trash the things you like
But when you like what they like
They say it's not right
Boys, boys, boys, boys
Boys, boys, boys, boys

What makes them think
There's a world inside of me
Made of flowers and smoky dreams
That a nightmare's not what it seems
Full of the gold of their enemies

What makes them think
They could spar with the evil
That made me
That made me
That made me
That made me

Boys never ask you what you like
They talk to each other all night
About the things they like
Boys, boys, boys, boys
Boys, boys, boys, boys

What makes them think
That gentle is fertility
That death won't provide for me
The desperation of babies
Trying to claw their way out of me

What makes them think
That they concern the furies
Who love me
Who love me
Who love me
Who love me

Who loves me baby
Who loves me baby



Credits
Writer(s): Zoya Brou
Lyrics powered by www.musixmatch.com

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