The stone that's not once touched, buried within my roots,
Just a burnt black orange,
The grass now crisp, and its still yellow. the treetops,
Done over again and again,
Chomp chomp
It's orange,
Hurry, hurry, it's hurting,
It's a burning black orange,
How do you hold the torch?
It's burning, scorching,
You better hurry, cause we're close to dying.