My heart tries to hide,
behind that tall fat tree,
where we used to play
in the tempered evenings of may

Now the leaves are dry
birds don't sing on its branches
but the tree still seems alright
and I can hug you tight

People have made a fool of us
chopping your branch
and piercing our hearts
I want you to hold your breath
while we play one last game
and the three of us
will hang till our **death