The Lick of Winter

You set off on your voyage
Clear skies
No doubt in your mind
When blood fell from the sky
Wide eyed
It was just like they described

We're primates
There's no mistaking
Despite the photographs we take
We set ablaze
Palpitations
Best of luck with your crusade

The lick of winter on our knuckles
But we're too cold to care
They raise their snouts at
The scent of trouble
But they can't pinpoint where

They're counterfeit
We're solid gold
The past's not dead
It's coming home
They're counterfeit
We're solid gold
The past's not dead
It's coming home



Credits
Writer(s): Conor Hicks
Lyrics powered by www.musixmatch.com

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