Terroir Terrors Tear Our Treasures

Glass of white sand used to hold a rose wine
Now's the time to do something about it

Wrath of gray god used to be well and fine
Now a two-string fiddle plays around it

Everything's tinted sick green and dull gold
While our shotguns sing out of tune

Nothing escapes the slow, sick, and the old
Be it youth, bold beauty, or boon

Terroir Terrors Tear Our Treasures

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