God damn...
cold, stinging winds.

I sit tight, and never think,
of all the things that stink.
Or suck, or blow or that just doesn't cope,
doing crack and weed and crank and dope.
Losers. That's what they are,
"Look, we're superman when we're drunk in a car."
Shut-up, I am so sick of hearing it,
when I really shouldn't be fearing shit.
Ugh, swearing, oh it's just so bad,
it's slightly reality, just a tad.
Anger management doesn't fly well,
We walk our souls to the rhythm of the bells.
The undertaker's my friend and all,
but he always wants to see me stall.

God damn...
cold, stinging winds.

And in the moment of sanity we believe ourselves,
Falling off the wagon like anvils on the shelves.
Four leaf clovers won't do me any justice,
and in my dreams is a ginger so luscious.

Eye sight, is coming to a stop,
country, rock, classical and hip hop.
Is what, is playing on my stereo,
Was I looking for love or a fucking hoe?
Does it matter? I mean really,
It's below zero but my head's not chilly.
In the glowing testaments of time and reason,
celebrate the hatred, celebrate the season.