Now I've wandered around the city in my old playground, and I have watched the miss parade, but I never find more the one who gives such a sound to the string and resonance to the song, like the lass who got the chorus in the green dance of my youth. She was Svartbäcken's Reddest Rose in a mug filled with the noblest juice. Her soul white as snow, but more hugs, more dew, she was Svartbäcken's Reddest Rose! There were moments, oh, so sweet every Wednesday and Saturday night, when we got snuff there in her bike rack. She on the frame, me on the seat and we chatted in chorus until I pulled the last joke, it went in like rancid butter. The one about Svartbäcken's Reddest Rose, she who was resident at there at Mr. Barium's, it was pressured and stupid, thought Svartbäcken's Reddest Rose. And I remember that summer evening when I proposed to a fool, I had traded my old Crafton for an electric rock guitar. What a glow in the serenade, all the plugs melted down, it became dark in the whole city, but then it burned all the more..... ...there at Svartbäcken's Reddest Rose, it was fire, it was smoke, it was us. And I stung like a mosquito with the guitar on my back from Svartbäcken's Redest Rose.
Hej Cridde. Vad kul att du gillar uppladdningen. Jag gillar Gert,både som sångare och låtskrivare. Tack för besöket och dina vänliga ord. Ha det gott min vän, och sköt om dig.
