Well I'm dropping outta art school I'm dropping out art school I'm dropping outta art school to find my girl Well she may be real pretty and hail from Charlotte City So I'm dropping outta art school to find my girl] Well I can talk a pretty slick drunken rambling blues, (carved my way across this country, strumming on my uke) And there aren't many things that I regret leaving behind But lately one thing has been on my mind: I'm a talkin' art school dropout soulmate searchin' blues Think' it's time I left here, dusted Dawson off my shoes boots In many ways it's been great living in the wild, But travelling on well that's more like my style CHORUS She may have good taste in hair and she may have dark eyes and she may have sharp glasses in black frames my own are made of soapstone, I carved them with my own hands and it would be an honour to be her man She may like to read good books and sing good music too, Maybe someday I'll sing to her this tune When I've roamed across the country in a van or a pickup truck I'd steal one if she'd wish me good luck CHORUS Canada is really big But I will find her no matter where she's hid Canada is really wide But I would stride across it to stand by her side and this is just a cheesy song for someone I'll never meet, so i hope at least it gets her tappin' her feet So I'm dropping out of art school to find my girl I'm dropping out of art school to find my girl I'm leavin art school to find my soulmate I'm leavin art school art school to find my girl and when i do i'm pretty sure that she'll mean the world… so I'm dropping outta art school to find my girl.

I'm going out to the mountains to see where the Old Man fell Won't you come with me there and bring some stories to tell along the way I'm awful quiet when I'm out in the wilderness And the White Mountains can seem awful lonely when they're shrouded in mist and missing their... Their faces now They're faceless now. Asleep on I-93 I dream I'm a mountain man Way back in 1805 when they first surveyed the cliffs in this land I am 11 and it just came crashing down that pensive slab of glacial rock slips into a frown I guess nature reminds us when we're due And nature will make us pay our dues. So won't you follow me Up to the Franklin Notch So I can touch that empty spot in the rocks And build me a glass house so I can watch the decay from the rock-face And when all the tourist-traps are erased off the map, I’ll still be watching and missing... their faces now we’re faceless now their faces now these hills are faceless now.

this is a song for winter mornings when the icicles are long and your breath comes out cloudy like cigarette smoke we've got our hands tucked in our pockets got boots up to our knees and our cheeks they are stinging in the December breeze but we're on our way to your house soon i'll grab a ukulele and set up on the couch and though i don't really know how to play it i'll keep going til you tell me to stop... and when we get there there'll be tea on the stove and a furry black dog to sniff at my toes this Christmas i want some new guitar strings so i can play at that house show and drunkenly sing "baby, i'm an anarchist" weren't we all? weren't we all as kids? and some of us still are and i can still see you trying to drink curdled coffee with soymilk out of a mason jar... so here we are, freezing our hands off in our mittens and i'm thinking on convictions like, "just how can i write a folk song, without living it all along?" and this goes out to every band i've played with awkward folks and the native children of Dartmouth town may we melt off those winter frowns so here goes, my apology it comes in droves "i know i've done every one some small wrong, so let me sing you a song for winter mornings when school is all done and we have all wanted these days to go on forever and sometimes, it felt like they did.

drinking with the poet and little to show for it i have been singing songs with the bassists of all the highschool bands. sipping on bailey's i'm perched a pier thought we were singing about travelling but my mind is still anchored here. we have not been as far as we would like to say but there are some good things coming up for the both of us some day skippin rocks in the city of lakes here i have found myself an accomplice to wile away summer days movin to new cities you'll stay here and explore ours like i never could got myself something nice we've got a good thing going this may be my last summer home but i'm not worried i haven't seen either you or the ocean's waves in far too long so you had better enjoy the view from the ferry when i'm gone. halifax's harbour always smells so pungent (and that ain't fun) but you know i almost miss the stench cause i grew up with it all along buskin' in the summer, always countin' numbers, cookin' breakfast in the nude or dressed up like a businessman in busted! beat up! leather shoes lightin' bonfires, guitar strings are wires to tie you to poetry you don't have to be looking out for for freedom, cause it'll find you, singing there is gold in dawson's hills and in the dartmouth mansions summer sun has glinted its last rays upon this town so make them last

the wake is held behind the school the leaves in the trees bear witness to the cruel wind that wants to blow out all the flames of/and our ever-changing roster of names of candle wicks and ever-changing names upon her hood we place tea lights and join in prayer as day turns to night purple dusk swallowing grey smoke boozy breath and all we've ever known and from that great grey cloud there did come a motorcade, a marching band with fief and drums the millionaire, his daughter and all their fine fair guests the full string quartet and the rest of them the performers. oh, Volvo oh how i miss you how unfortunate that you got used up like that but i guess that's the point we all come to and someday i'll be in your shoes -- or tires, rather so when it comes time don't send me out like that i don't want a marching band that's never been a part of my plan.