Under a pink moon rising, an antidepressant lullaby creeps into the empty room where the boy is sketching sighs. Wasted in fourteen languages and an automatic dream where love is a porcupine and the quills of the beast are embedded in me. Brighten up, brighten up. The trees are full this year. Brighten up, Mr. Drake Now you’re a star even if no one knows who you are. Take heart, the worst days are gone as the last bit of November light creeps into an artists room where the boy has lost the fight. Brighten up, Brighten up. The trees are full this year. Brighten up, Mr. Drake. Now you’re a star even if no one knows who you are. Wake up, wake up. The trees are full this year. Take heart, Mr. Drake. Now you’re a star even if no one knows who you are.