Jungle Song

I'm always wet before I get my hair cold.
I might look old, but I'm not the one that said so.
Son, it's cold I suggest you run home.
'Cause it's a shame to see the weight of your own load.

I chase each drink as if I'm on the free road.
I bought a hammer just to see where it would go.
I come up dry without a shelter or a home.
But that's the toll I get for paying off the devil.

The horse I rode has traveled home,
and all the cold and frozen passengers
will be relieved to see me deceased.
When I awoke, I told the others
of all the roads and boats I traveled on.
Still, I could see, they don't believe.
So I screamed holes in my throat from suffering.
They drew a rope, I spoke in tongues for them.
Stil, they said, "you must lay dead."

I hold my breath to show myself just what it's like.
I clinch my fist until each wrist will hold you tight.
Unlike the dogs who can't run far without permission.
Unlock the gate and free this slave from your submission.

Are you so cold you left your mind at home?