Bud Petal blogs here, and is also on facebook, twitter, vimeo, and instagram.

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Wild Horses Couldn't Drive Me to Her

News just to hand, at autumn's gate, she's left me nonplussed on my heels.
Oh, wild horses couldn't drive me to her.

Advice is to my woman gone, don't compound folly with malice.
Oh, it was in the merry month of April.

So take your head off my pillow, lay your sweetest warm breath on someone else's lips.

News just to hand, she's as keen as mustard, rearranging the furniture whilst the house burns down.
Oh, wild horses couldn't drive me to her.

My l'amour fou is now a jamais vu, no more cinders in the snow.
Oh, nor a penny on my soul.

My hear warms towards her, but it could never the years between us.
Oh, not a hope of a prayer.

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