The glowing tip of my cancer stick is the only light I see br As the wind blows low, on the whitest snow, there is only it and me br I stand alone, a frozen gnome, wondering what will I be br And the crushing blow, too hard to know, is I cannot be free br From the chains of steel, and the burning wheel, constructed long ago br When the world was young, and its mother tongue, spoke only where to go br So the wind whirls round, without a sound, tossing me to and fro br And I can’t escape, without my rolling papes, for then I just might knowbr br Andrew Mossbr br