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**hes 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