I crack my neck for echolocation
I feel the broken, strained magnetic pull
I keep my eyes awake for information
But on a steep slope up through stranded huts
Scarred by jagged rocks and ruts
I turn against the cold, the cold, the cold!
Shillelagh, lay with me in the grassy grove
We’ll never have to do as we are told
But if we’re caught by the many that we drove
I know a shortcut through the hidden trips
Where we can hide from tongues and lips
And turn against the cold, the cold, the cold!
I can’t tell you where I am
You might follow, might just try
I can keep the narrow steps
You can only see it if it’s in your eye!
If my escape is fleeting, let it be so
If my returning is just so foretold
And if my companions still believe I know
That on a straight line down down the forest hills
A friend can help and always will
They’ve never faced the cold, the cold, the cold