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• Artiste: Squirtgun
• Titre: Frederick's Frost
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He's sitting frozen with mud on his feet in Indiana And his blue skin plays a January song His mind a-wanders to the sunshine he's been missing in the white room. She stared at his brisket eyes so long A lonely snowman, he figures and he calculates her body And life's brevity assures him that it won't last long. He's got days Days and says Iceman fight in my head Frederick's Frost He thinks about her lovely nametag as he shivers by the birdbath Bromide poison concentrated dull He's got lots of pictures of her he could show you, but he has concroid pitches in his skull Turned loose from the cage. He's a lion with an illness And every rose he touches folds and turns to glass