He's a wounded animal

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 
baby of the swamps 
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 [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 
Come on, baby, baby, now feel the waltz 
Feel the waltz, feel the waltz 
Come on, baby, baby, now feel the waltz