The Tortured Poets Department – Taylor Swift

The Tortured Poets Department – Taylor Swift  (Letra e Música para Ouvir)

Ooh) you left your typewriter at my apartment
Straight from the tortured poets department
I think some things I’ll never say
Like, who uses typewriters anyway?

But you’re in self-sabotage mode
Throwing spikes down on the road
But I’ve seen this episode and still loved the show

Who else decodes you?
And who’s gonna hold you like me?
And who’s gonna know you if not me?
I laughed in your face and said
You’re not Dylan Thomas (oh), I’m not Patti Smith (oh)
This ain’t the Chelsea Hotel, we’re modern idiots
And who’s gonna hold you like me?
Nobody
No-fucking-body
Nobody

You smoked, then ate seven bars of chocolate
We declared Charlie Puth should be a bigger artist
I scratch your head, you fall asleep
Like a tattooed golden retriever

But you’re awaken with dread
Pounding nails in your head
But I’ve read this one
Where you [?] down
I chose this cyclone with you

And who’s gonna hold you like me? (Who’s gonna hold you? Who’s gonna hold you?)
And who’s gonna know you like me? (Who’s gonna know you?)
I laughed in your face and said
You’re not Dylan Thomas (oh), I’m not Patti Smith (oh)
This ain’t the Chelsea Hotel, we’re modern idiots
And who’s gonna hold you like me? (Who’s gonna hold you? Who’s gonna hold you?)
No-fucking-body (who’s gonna hold you? Who’s gonna hold you?)
Nobody (who’s gonna hold you? You wanna know? You wanna [?] you?)
Nobody (ooh-ooh)

Sometimes I wonder if you’re gonna screw this up with me
But you told Lucy you’d kill yourself if I ever leave
And I had said that to Jack about you, so I felt seen
Everyone we know understands why it’s meant to be
‘Cause we’re crazy
So tell me, who else’s gonna love you?

At dinner, you take my ring off my middle finger
And put it on the one people put wedding rings on
And that’s the closest I’ve come to my heart exploding

And who’s gonna hold you? (Huh) me
Who’s gonna know you? (Ooh) me
(Ooh) and you’re not Dylan Thomas (oh), I’m not Patti Smith (oh)
This ain’t the Chelsea Hotel, we’re two idiots
Who’s gonna hold you?
(Who’s gonna hold you? Who’s gonna hold you?)
(Who’s gonna hold you? Who’s gonna hold you?)
(Who’s gonna hold you? Who’s gonna hold you?)
(Who’s gonna hold you? You wanna know [?]? You [?] you)
(Ooh-ooh, ooh-ooh)

You left your typewriter at my apartment
Straight from the tortured poets department
Who else decodes you? Ooh-ooh
Ooh-ooh
Ooh-ooh

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