| Come with me | 
| Fall into the wildscape | 
| Reverse the church bells | 
| Swiping in the mud | 
| With two fingers | 
| And one in your mouth, wandering | 
| I was a thumbsucker, what am I now? | 
| I was a thumbsucker, what am I now? | 
| Am I a traveller, was I ever? | 
| Or do I just colour 'round the clear lines? | 
| Do I just turn away from every confrontation? | 
| Biting until bleeding | 
| She says she knows | 
| This is my strange voice | 
| She say she’s close | 
| Once I was a thumbsucker | 
| Doesn’t say to what | 
| Once I was a runaway | 
| The forest is all sorts of forests | 
| Hid in tight places and World War II bunkers | 
| It seems to be adapting itself, she says | 
| Found secret tree huts, spiralling | 
| Alternating between mountains and marshland | 
| A self-harming vampire, she always says | 
| Of the tender kind, she always says | 
| A compensation, she always says | 
| For something too wild, for something too wild | 
| For something too wild, something too wild | 
| For something too wild, for something too wild | 
| In this way | 
| Alternating mouth and thumb | 
| Forest and human | 
| Both transforming | 
| Forest and humans | 
| Producing nothing. | 
| Until | 
| Are equals | 
| I got afraid that I’d dug too deep | 
| Stirred up something in the body | 
| The glands of instinct, fear and desire | 
| Clanking from a distant engine | 
| Iron shafts and idler-wheels | 
| And then there is release | 
| Whatever it is you are doing to yourself | 
| You are always performing some kind of internal construction work | 
| I was a thumbsucker, what am I now | 
| Am I a runaway, was I ever? | 
| It’s all in the wrist | 
| Sketching out the wildscapes | 
| Sucking on the church bells | 
| The hunger of the clappers | 
| Withdrawing word by word | 
| Back into the rabbit hole |