| Snow falling all around
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| And in the darkened house
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| The little boy daren’t make a sound
|
| His parents whispering outside the door
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| He plans the day when they won’t be there anymore
|
| They’re telling him this
|
| They’re telling him that
|
| You’ll never predict
|
| The way that he might react
|
| He’s lost in a maze
|
| Of difficult days
|
| He’s sinking too fast
|
| He’s walking on broken glass
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| Speak softly to the child
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| For inbetween his head and racing heart
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| Lies something wild
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| No sense in shouting he can’t hear for the noise
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| He plays with fire, broken glass twisted tin, broken toys
|
| They’re telling him this
|
| They’re telling him that
|
| You’ll never predict
|
| The way that he might react
|
| He’s lost in a maze
|
| Of difficult days
|
| He’s sinking too fast
|
| He’s walking on broken glass |