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.