Текст песни Funeral Home - Covey

Theres dancing flames that follow me,
They heat my neck and burn my knees,
Don't want to cry, just need to wail,
And have someone there to tell my tale.

'Cause this could be my Funeral Home
Made out of sticks and brittle black bones.
Just a tree thats empty and old,
Singing the songs I wrote for you.

Maybe I still cross your mind,
Maybe not, don't feel inclined.
Is this real life, or just a dream,
'Cause its a blur [Endless it?] seems.
When did I buy yellow socks,
Is this some ruse, to catch their
Its been around since I was born,
And shows its face in thunderstorms.

'Cause this could be my Funeral Home,
Made out of sticks and brittle black bones.
Just a thief thats stolen my
Singing the songs I wrote for you.

Oh, la laa, la, la laa, la, la laa, la, la laa,

Let go.
Maybe I will.
Let go.
Maybe I wont.
Let go.
Maybe I will.
Maybe-
Maybe I will.

'Cause this could be my Funeral Home,
Made out sticks and brittle black bones.
Is it just me or have grown old?
Singing the songs I used to love.