Las Armas
La mano limpia es limpia es valor
La ropa esconde el dolor
La dulce vida en la mira
Y las armas disparan, disparan, disparan
Palabras finas no es amor
Se vuelve estilo, es furor
Y si pudiera tocarte
La mentira si iría, se iría, se iría
La conciencia es traición
Un naufragio, un error
Un animal que sabe
La desdicha y respira, respira, respira
La ropa esconde el dolor
La dulce vida en la mira
Y las armas disparan, disparan, disparan
Palabras finas no es amor
Se vuelve estilo, es furor
Y si pudiera tocarte
La mentira si iría, se iría, se iría
La conciencia es traición
Un naufragio, un error
Un animal que sabe
La desdicha y respira, respira, respira
Credits
Writer(s): Tomás Canela
Lyrics powered by www.musixmatch.com
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