Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Heatmiser
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
A Murder Of Crows
Elliott Smith
Heatmiser
Elliott Smith
Stranger Than Fiction
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Elliott Smith
Sonny boy wore a silver chain
And he sold the tracks for the train
But I've got a hat in my hand that fit my best to a T
Broken easily
Took the street from the curb below
Where it's too disturbing to go
Holding a needle in my hand above the symphony
Broken easily
While the trumpets blare
Dissipate to air
And I've got praying hands hanging
From a silver chain
With a talent for catastrophe
I can't explain
When i count the steps to safety
That i know will protect me
The pain it just doesn't move
Away from me