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