"Fred," I said, "I see your garden's grown since I've been gone You know, I left here in the springtime thinking you were planting mud? Yeah, but you old men, you always think your own shit makes good manure You call it 'compost' when you squat among the weeds in vacant lots" "Well, where ya been this time?," he says He says it every time He likes to think that he is saying, "It could not have been that far" Yeah, but when I tell him 'Iceland,' I caught him off his guard Fred, he dreads the winter more than he looks forward to the spring He burns a kerosene lamp inside an old ambulance There's a dog he calls 'Trouble' sleeps in the middle of the road But buried somewhere in his garden there's a vein of new potatoes But will the birds forget to sing when I return here in the spring? That's what I want to know Even now the geese are flying mighty low As I pack my bags to go On one more tour This is my winter song I just thought it would be nice If I wrote something That would help break the ice