He's a wounded animal
He lives in a matchbox
He's a wounded animal
And he's [bad word] 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 [bad word] 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
baby of the swamps
baby of the south
I'm twenty years of clean
And I never [bad word] 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 [bad word] 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 [bad word] 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 [bad word] on, baby, baby, now feel the waltz
Feel the waltz, feel the waltz [bad word] on, baby, baby, now feel the waltz