Must be the word, must be expression
The creature stirs, must be progression
Shake when I'm empty
Like a bowl full of semper fi
Hung by the chimney to signify, simplify

What wants to be what works through me
What wants to be what talks to me

And if I'm right in my impression
It's only luck, not self-possession
If to examine what we slam
Is a waste of fate
Stockings are worn by the Santa grate
To gravitate

What wants to be what works through me
What wants to be what talks to me

Gentle into that good night we could ride
The sky dark against trees bright from inside
Which lit my roof up to land on at night
Woke to the contract to see it as reflected light
Fit of depression, right
Fit of depression right now
Fit of depression right now

Fit of depression right now
Fit of depression right

Fit of depression right now
Fit of depression right

Fit of depression right now
Fit of depression right now

Fit of depression right now

Fit of depression right

Fit of depression right now
Fit of depression right

Right now
Right now
Right now