It is December now, the trees are naked
As the three crosses on the hill;
Through the white fog the face of the orange sun is cryptic
Like a lawyer making the year’s will.
The year has little to show, will leave a heavy
overdraft to its heir.
It is December now, the trees are naked
As the three crosses on the hill;
Through the white fog the face of the orange sun is cryptic
Like a lawyer making the year’s will.
The year has little to show, will leave a heavy
overdraft to its heir.
