This whole town knows I am a weather station
built upon a frosty mountain and on bitter contemplation
And the dials are expecting self destruction
Of a mind of scrutination , sabotage and cold damnation
But you, are the map that guides
every pin in canvas every string that inter-winds
You, are the tides of hope
Every reason not to fail every trying guiding rope
And its the age of random navigation
set our rudders to one side in warming quests for conversation
Picking up on radar dots of low booze fueled commotion
As we steer hard right to get by sailing every seventh ocean
and you, are the map that guides
every pin in canvas every string that inter-winds
You, are the tides of hope
Every reason not to fail every trying guiding rope
