The Roaming Sky

Professing to the Roaming sky

Turning round in salt I’d lye

For I’m not always the surest one

I ask the heavens what should be done

Should I wait for your return?

Or snuff the candle so no wicked burn

Or maybe I should encourage it

To bring about the sun

Sun…sun come out

Surely that will bring the spring

For winter is the grayest thing

Hands move slower then and…

Than the flesh that’s eaten off the man

Sun…sun come out