There's dancing flames that follow me
They heat my neck and burn my knees
Don't want to cry I just need to [?]
And have someone there to tell my tale
'Cause this could be my funeral home
Made out of sticks and riddle black bones
Just a tree that's empty and old
Singing the songs I wrote for you
Maybe I still cross your mind
Maybe no don't fill [?]
Is this a real life or just a dream?
'Cause it's so blurry at the seams
When did I buy yellow socks?
Is this some rules to catch that fox?
That's been around since I was born
And shows its face in thunderstorms
'Cause this could be my funeral home
Made out of sticks and riddle black bones
Just a thief that's stolen my mood
Singing the songs I wrote for you
Like all maybe I will break all
Maybe I won't like all
Maybe I will, maybe
Maybe I will
'Cause this could be my funeral home
Made out of sticks and riddle black bones
Is it just me or have I grown cold?
Singing the songs I used to love
