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...