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 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