You are no rose without a footprint.
I am no soul without a thorn.
But I am sure you are the one
to walk upon my water.

This may be a little short on cynical
or even overboard on sincere.
But you know how wavy things get around here
on this slow and steady fall to grace.

So you sit and think of the things
all down stuck inside,
all those little dreams
that just have to be.
Fruit tree, I'll see you at the fair in the county.

I know our slopes may grow too shallow
Or our friction find itself far too fierce.
But our angles will never grow hard and hollow
though more acute, obtuse and acute year by year.

So I'm stuck sitting here in these empty halls
just listening to the lovers find each other next door.
I am sure no one could have faked that moan.
That's the most reassuring part of it all

So we sit and talk of things
all stuck down inside,
all those little dreams
that just had to die.
Fruit tree, show me a way through this country