Lyrics
We won't mind if you try to fix him, and then cry into the mic.
According to stories fireside, he was raised by wolves then cut and left to die.
It's a useful myth - drink this, shrink down; pop this, grow big.
And now the rocky ride is ending in a silent glide, slalom down the snow hill in a tin can ride.
If it weren't so nigh, time you'd be screaming out, if it weren't your kid, you would give into doubt.
But these days you're trying to quit, like those smiles that he fooled you with.
We won't mind, feign a thick skin and then split at the sides.
Faulty rhymes - he was born heart beating to the pulse of poetic crime.
It's a hard one, kid, the paint's quite peeling, but, boy, the wood is fine.
And now the rocky ride is ending in a silent glide, slalom down the snowhill in a tin can ride.
If it weren't so nigh, time you'd be screaming out.
If it weren't your kid, you would give into doubt.
But these days you're trying to quit, like those smiles that he fooled you with.
