Fruit cake. Fresh and ready to age.
Old cirious books. Cold weather.
Guitar heroine, in blond hair.
I hold this card
Little bit of paper
I’m nothing here
I not
Visit you
I’m sorry.
Hollow now, I stand
The wombat I drew
I’m not even sure it got to you
I couldn’t come
I hold this card with the moon
And I just can’t stop thinking about
How I couldn’t visit you
