When the clouds grow dark, the air turns cold.
When I'm scared and cry like a child.
You're there at my side, like a knight of old,
To calm me and hold me a while.
Hang on, I found one that's a bit out of date but not terribly so. Just imagine this picture cept with me having a Basch Beard.
"The word rustic doesn’t even begin to satisfy the requirements of an adjective used to describe this town. Rustic is a looming butressed cathedral to this town’s Stone Henge. Rustic is the ocean to this town’s mud puddle. Simply put, rustic is a word inadequate to describe the squalour."
