I hear you hitched a ride to Fundy Bay and set your sights on
nomology cuz your feelings were too dismal to keep at bay. So
you count 2x2 cobblestones at your feet-that's all you can
manage on the Canadian side of the street-I have a feeling it'll be
a while before we meet again. I got this gut fear from the latest
radar or the feeling when I watch un-falling stars even if I wish for
them to fall real hard.

   There you go. It's like you're sleeping under a blanket of snow.
   There you go. It's like you're lost in-or buried in-snow.

The weatherman claimed that qualms of sadness would fall fast
from the sky today-I hate it when he talks that way-the
weatherman should be banned from speaking metaphorically. But
you can't believe what you hear on t.v. today-come to think of it I
never believed you much, anyways. I guess it's a question of the
chicken or the egg. I tried to say this all with a shy mumble but I
fumble with words, I bumble my hurt-you make act humble, hun,
but deep down it works on you.

   There you go. It's like you're drifting through drifts of snow.
   There you go. It's like you're lost in-or buried in-snow.

   The prediction called for the worst
   or did I ask for it first?
   The forecast called for the worst
   or did I ask for it first?

I hear you hitched a ride to Fundy Bay.
Actually, I lied.
It only feels that way.
For all I know, you could be right across the way or you could be
in Paris or somewhere so cold that it snows (even though , I know,
you hate the snow so)-at least I won't be there to say "I told you
so". Well, you sporadically proved your love, love-I guess that's
something I should be thankful of. Now I'll try to think what I
should think of.

   There you go. It's like you're sleeping under ten blankets of snow.
   There you go. It's like you're
   Lost in or
   Buried in or
   Looking for or
   Askin for
   More snow.