Tekster: Fionn Regan. The End Of History. Black Water Child.

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