What will it take to spark this fire? The wood is damp and the cold and dark are winning the night. For every bull, ten matadors. Down in the bones of the earth go our hymns. Huddled together and craving warmth. The night is cold, your heat, your body, my torch. The ocean trench or The Matterhorn. Down in the bones of the earth go our hymns. But if we can’t keep shit together for ourselves, how can we do it for anybody else? You spark a match when things are dire. Sulphuric scent, fleet foot, we dance at the pyre. The charred remains of our sycophants. Down in the bones of the earth go our hymns. You are the flint, you lit the fire when wood was damp and the cold and dark were winning the night. I’ve drowned the flames with metaphor. Down in the bones of the earth go our hymns but if we can’t keep shit together for ourselves, how can we do it for anybody else? All my friends are lovers, all my friends are cold and in between. I want to get this party started, sing along the refrain. Although the course unknown is plotted, we flame on through the rain.
"There will be light come the morning. Hold tight till then to your sleep. Onerous sound breaks your slumber. Wash, rinse, soil then repeat. Repeat verse. Repeat Chorus. Wash, rinse, repeat. To the boys, to the girl, to the weeping tree." Girlvert