In The House Of Baba Yaga
It’s hunting time
A ball falls to the ground
Build a fire like jack london’s
When november ends
And the artic winds cut down
Slumber til the snow melts
And you cannot just pretend
Sure we’re all alone
In a house made out of
Broken bones on chicken legs
That run
So write your name
With a finger in the frost
Waiting, waiting for the holidays
Waiting, waiting for the holidays
