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...


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 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

I never truly hated anyone or anything

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...

While you stare at your boots

And the words float out like holograms...

They say, feel the waltz, feel the waltz,

Come on, baby, baby, now feel the waltz...