Åñëè Âàøåé ëþáèìîé ïåñíè èëè àëüáîìà The Prodigals íåò â ñïèñêå ïåñåí, òî Âû ìîæåòå äîáàâèòü èõ â íàøó êîëëåêöèþ ñ ïîìîùüþ ýòîé ôîðìû. Äîáàâèòü âèäåî-êëèïû ê ïåñíÿì Âû ìîæåòå íà ñîîòâåòñòâóþùèõ ñòðàíèöàõ. Òàê æå Âû ìîæåòå äîáàâèòü áèîãðàôèþ è äèñêîãðàôèþ ñ ïîìîùüþ ýòîé ññûëêè.
Åñëè Âû õîòèòå äîáàâèòü íîâîãî èñïîëíèòåëÿ è åãî ïåñíè, âîñïîëüçóéòåñü ýòîé ôîðìîé.
You may dream of a land, of a far-distant land
Where the clouds drift above,
White over green grass and clover
Do the songs still go on are the races now won
By fellows you used to win over
Do they still recall those days long ago
Are their images those the windows of life still adorning
Do they feel that ache that you can never shake
That wakes with you still in the morning
You may drink when you're dry
You may laugh till you cry
And the tears from your eyes keep on falling
For lethe it runs slow, and never may you know
Respite from your heart still recalling
If anger glows slow there's a fuse in a jug
A jug filled with punch
A jug filled with punch in the evening
There's the world in your hand, who can ever understand
Why the jar or two leaves you grieving
Do you torture yourself, is it not you at all,
Is it others' fault instead you can't take a breath without sighing
There's no logic that you know, that can ever make it so
But twenty pints or so stops you dying
Now you're old, vast and gray
And living in the ‘burbs,
In the bunkers of town,
Archie bunkered down in the trenches
You've established your redoubt,
Immigrants keep out
Nostalgia and cops your defenses
