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   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      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