| Somewhere in those wicked woods
|
| You build your fire
|
| And somehow in those foolish floods
|
| You keep it dry
|
| Idiots blow their wasted wind
|
| But it burns so bright
|
| Some time in that lonely life
|
| You’ve become the night
|
| Now somewhere there’s a little star
|
| In the big black sky
|
| And somehow in that endless void
|
| You see its light
|
| And spinning around its burning core
|
| There could be some life
|
| Looking up at you
|
| For answers in the night
|
| Hot potato armageddon
|
| Good and evil, now wait a minute
|
| What a stinkin' time
|
| Just to be alive
|
| All the people keep forgetting
|
| A piece of bread, yeah, tuck it in your cheek
|
| For a rainy day
|
| Yeah, but you get rainy weeks
|
| You’re a busted wheel, babe
|
| But you never squeak
|
| So they pass you over every time they sweep
|
| But your signal fire is buried deep
|
| In those wicked woods that you like to keep
|
| So you throw your body upon the heap
|
| And the flames surround you from head to feet
|
| And it’s boiling over as the fire leaps
|
| You embrace a grove of surrounding trees
|
| And you feel it spreading like warm disease
|
| And we all turn toward you to face the heat
|
| Become the fire, fire
|
| Become the fire, fire
|
| Become the fire, fire
|
| Become the fire, fire
|
| Fire
|
| Fire
|
| Fire
|
| Fire |