It’s hunting time
 ball falls to the ground
 Build a fire like Jack London’s

 When November ends
 And the Artic winds cut down
 Slumber til the snow melts
 And you cannot just pretend

 Sure we’re all alone
 In a house made out of 
 Broken bones on chicken legs
 [bad word] 
 So write your name
 With a finger in the frost
 Waiting, waiting for the holidays
 Waiting, waiting for the holidays