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He's a wounded animal He lives in a matchbox He's a wounded animal And he's been coming around here He's a dying breed He's a dying breed His daughter is twenty years of snow falling She's twenty years of strangers looking into each other's eyes She's twenty years of clean She never truly hated anyone or anything She's a dying breed She's a dying breed She says I'd prefer the moss I'd prefer the mouth A baby of the swamps A baby of the south I'm twenty years of clean And I never truly hated anyone or anything Twenty years of clean Twenty years of clean But I got to get me out of here This place is full of dirty old men And the navigators with their mappy maps And moldy heads and pissing on sugarcubes But I got to get me out of here This place is full of dirty old men And the navigators with their mappy maps And moldy heads and pissing on sugarcubes While you stare at your boots And the words float out like holograms And the words float out like holograms And the words float out like holograms They say, feel the waltz, feel the waltz Come on, baby, baby, now feel the waltz Feel the waltz, feel the waltz Come on, baby, baby, now feel the waltz |
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