It's tough to pitch a tent in the wintertime
the snow is cold and I don't feel like dying.
The tree said it's not my time to go
its roots felt something underneath the snow.
If hotels were cheaper I would hop on a bus
or a train and just leave for three or four days
to give myself some time to chew on this
but grinding my teeth will make me toothless
And somewhere in my walking I had misstepped
Is it wrong to think that nothing is important?
When confidence makes stout my body
Puffed out chest and long shirtsleeves
I give my words permission to leave
From the branches of my tongue they're leaves
Puffed up woman and puffed up man
Concrete pushing further from the land
throwing salt to try and melt the snow
pincushion puffed-up human has to go
And somewhere in the talking I was misread.
Is it wrong to think that nothing is important?
