Patrick Wolf

Lucy, remember
The smell of that fall
The fires of fungus
And the rotting leaves
I fell off the wagon
Into your arms
Into this long month of sundays
And you were my husband
My wife, my heroin
Now this is our final December
Now deep in a forest
Losing all though of spring
And nothing can help me remember
And I'm going nowhere fast
A darker day has holed at last
Deep in a dream I set the calmness to spinning