... this is a fine country to be in ...
Under the white sky the black limbs of trees,
The cold and the crackle and nothing felt right
Oh this quiet like stillness the mission begun,
They were waiting around for the wasting.
And in the warm nights he would fly from the skies,
By day he just stared at the closing in,
And she just lives there like a fallen down tree,
She says there are places she'd much rather be.
He said, 'you know sometimes there seems to be
More of the sky and not so much of me...
more of the sky, much less of me...'
Under the white sky the black limbs of trees,
The cold and the crackle and nothing felt right
Oh this quiet like stillness the mission begun,
They were waiting around for the wasting.
And in the warm nights he would fly from the skies,
By day he just stared at the closing in,
And she just lives there like a fallen down tree,
She says there are places she'd much rather be.
He said, 'you know sometimes there seems to be
More of the sky and not so much of me...
more of the sky, much less of me...'