On the shore of the lake,   In the great upstate of New York,   Came the call of a loon.   Cold, cold, o'er a plume of smoke.   He spoke of the future.   He sang, "You, my friend, are alone, alone."      We live with the cockroach   And we split our cords of oak   And keep this wood stove burning   While the bitter winds are blowing.   We stow our words in the cellar   So we never lose hope,   And keep this wood fire stoked   While the bitter winds blow.      Alone on the land,   In the love of the dirt again,   There's a sharp, jagged winter   At the center of my home.   Of my blood and bones,   That sleets and snows and makes me shiver.   But you, my heart, I will never know.      We live with the cockroach,   And we split our cords of oak.   And keep this wood stove burning   While the bitter winds are blowing.   We stow our words in the cellar   So we never lose hope,   And keep this wood fire stoked   While the bitter winds blow.