This icicle tear in your eye
I'll let it melt
I'll make it dry
Let's try our own beer brewed from rye
And from spelt
Getting high

This is how we used to feel
In the summertime

This is how we used to dance
In the lunar shine

This is how we used to laugh
About our mocking rhymes

So high

No icicle fear can tell why
And how we felt so alive