| 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
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| I’d prefer the mouth
|
| A baby of the swamps
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| 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 sugar cubes
|
| 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 sugar cubes
|
| 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 |