| Standing on the edge of the cliff, | |
| I start to slip | |
| Don't mind if | |
| I slide off | |
| Now I feel my mood starts to lift, | |
| I find my grip | |
| And the screaming fades away below | |
| I grab myself and spin me around, | |
| I start to sprint | |
| I climb down to steadier ground | |
| If I can bushwhack it on back to the shack behind those hills | |
| I'll find the world is finally still | |
| Run through pale dark woods to that sugar shack | |
| Breathe warm steam and hide in that old sugar shack | |
| Boiling heat, maple steam, frozen snow, then it flows | |
| When you leave your maple dream wait till spring to go again | |
| A mosaic of lies | |
| I tried to arrange in ways that shelter the blame | |
| I thought | |
| I might have made off clear with all of the loot | |
| I plucked and ate all the fruit | |
| Then I started hearing the yells and shattering plates | |
| Drowned out by your slithering stares | |
| I was followed and chased and caught and tied up | |
| By the hay right until | |
| I made my escape | |
| Run through pale dark woods to that sugar shack | |
| Breathe warm steam and hide in that old sugar shack |
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