[Intro] The pines called it a joyride— their branches clicking like teeth, promising clear trails and untouched powder. The hill just waited, patient as a creditor, while the four-wheeler’s engine answered back too eager. [Verse 1] Four-wheeler down a throat I shouldn't have swallowed— the hill grinned with snow-packed teeth. Each drift a ribcage closing, each spin of the tires a prayer the white grip answered with laughter. Tractor too heavy, too proud, its treads just polished the prison. [Verse 2] Shovel swings like a confession— sweat freezing to my collar before it hits the ground. The four-wheeler whined, a beaten dog that still thought it could run. Every scoop forward, two drifts back. The hill had all day. I had four hours of backbone and a father’s borrowed tractor that wouldn't reach. [Chorus] White grip, white grip— horsepower means nothing here. The land doesn't flinch at your torque, doesn't bow to your throttle. It just holds you tighter, lets you think you're winning until the road spits you out covered in your own sweat and the hill’s amusement. [Bridge] Sore today because the snow doesn't forget— it buries what it loves, what it hates, what it chooses to let live. The four-wheeler hums now in the barn, smug and warm while my shoulders still carry the weight of its rescue. [Outro] The woods keep their promises— just not the ones you heard. Deep snow remembers every track, every hubris, every bet. Next time the pines call your name, listen for the laugh underneath. That’s the hill, collecting interest on a debt you didn’t know you owed.
