Hiker's Paradise

You were born and raised in the cold northeast And your papa was a roadside prophet Nicotine on his nails and teeth Talk of war in a time of peace Could never line your papa's pocket And it's thrice distilled for the saint's relief He told you, though you never listened That the road to hell is hiker's paradise And everything before you get there Sure looks nice And though you say you hardly miss him Hard it is to know all that he sacrificed Sitting in his armchair sipping old advice Some say man is a sour seed Forever tethered to his selfish sorrow Some say love is a kind of greed But it's cruel indeed that everything you need's Already written in the books you borrowed For it's hard to learn what you cannot read He told you, though you never listened That the road to hell is hiker's paradise And everything before you get there Sure looks nice And though you say you hardly miss him Hard it is to know all that he sacrificed Sitting in his armchair sipping old advice