It's Over, These Bones Are Picked Clean

There's a hole in the earth, the downward spiral.
And we could be fed by the weight of the purest heartache.
This is the end of the world.
These tar soaked lungs have ripened.
This should be my end, but you won't let go. I'm not holding on, why are you?
I am the rat.
This is the end of the world.
These tar soaked lungs have ripened.
And I'm gone right back when I felt for something that I can't touch. I feel sick.
Down to my roots, deep in the earth, so unforgiving.
Without branches to bare ripe fruit.
Don't let it in, don't let him, don't breathe it in, don't bring it in.



Credits
Writer(s): Joel Hallam, Luke Vaessen, Owen Broad, Tim Westwood
Lyrics powered by www.musixmatch.com

Link