There is a green sweater sewn to fit an old man,
Cigar smoke and stale coffee hang in the air.
Only a bright sunlight dances across the hills
Pouring in through the window and onto the rotting wood floor.
What if we find new places,
Escape the distant memories,
Memories deteriorating like the room we stand in.
Your hand in mine we can walk away,
We can walk away from your old sweater.
My friend, the hills are ours,
If only the roses don't bite.