Down here underneath the microscope,
It's hard to cope.
Don't hide your face in your hands,
'Cause if your eyes play tricks,
It's outta my control.

It's gonna be a long cold winter.
The skeletons of trees, my blackwater child

If you don't love me, well, don't shove me
Out into the dark
Without a flashlight or a spark.
Any stitches cling like b____es to my arms
For all my charms.

It's gonna be a crooked little winter
The skeletons of trees, my blackwater child

She's walking home
To the devil's flowers.
The broken bones
Of heavy hours.
We stayed out late,
It's a lighthouse trait.
And we'll take our time.

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