Summer's cold I've been told The corrosive nature of a broken soul Grabs ahold, predetermined before you were four years old Now you know How to deal with all the headaches And that winter's just no place to wake up Shotgun shells On the shelf in my dad's closet I had never held a gun But always wanted one Box of pills In the kitchen on the counter With the days marked at the top Bring the glass in, fill the palm Drink til the last drop Yeah that's good Summer's cold I've been told The corrosive nature of a broken soul Grabs ahold, predetermined before you were four years old Now you know How to deal with all the headaches Used to feel too hard to handle You know that winter's just a place So where's the problem? So where's the problem? So where's the problem? So where's the problem?