This box of limes is burning coldnCome all these moonbeams, burning down my doornThese dirty rhymes are on a rollnThat's not what it seemsnCrawling across your floornnFading stars in the purple orange nightnGrowing dreams of roses blue and whitennThis toothpick, Baby, is burning waxnPigs on a postcard are playing jacksnThey play for nothing, no looking backnThat's not what it seemsnCrawling through the cracksnnFading stars in the purple orange nightnGrowing dreams of roses blue and whitennThis box of limes is burning coldnCome all these moonbeams, further to be soldnThese dirty rhymes are chewing glassnThat's not what it seemsnComing over the passnnFading stars in the purple orange nightnGrowing dreams of roses blue and whitennnFading stars in the purple orange nightnGrowing dreams of roses blue and whitennThis box of limes is burning coldnnThis box of limesnnThis box of limes is burning coldnThese dirty rhymes are chewing glassnThat's not what it seemsnComing over the passnn