/// A silly little song about all the silly little ways we try and find/make peace with a silly little world ///
Well there's a fire in our local rodeo supply
And the cowboy's can't figure out how to cry
This was once a land of constant standoffs
Now it's fingers itching for the kitchen wine
And touching stoves until they can finally take it
But you don't find peace, you make it
Run fast enough and it might feel like a breeze
Or burn through your money til your assets freeze
Well the coldest place to be is the nudist colony
But behind closed doors they wear plain white t's
There's no soul that can bear it all so naked
Cause you don't find peace, you make it
You don't find peace, you make it
So make it quick!
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