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 bitches 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