| In the middle of the village was a household
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| A little different to the others, they weren’t as cold
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| So let’s go down below
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| To meet the only townsfolk made out of snow
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| He was a clown, you know, loved pranking, bro
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| Suddenly pouncing, making people round say, «Oh!»
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| His name was bob and his daily job
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| Was guarding the town nightly at eight o’clock
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| But Bob got so bored
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| That he’d lob snowballs at the locals
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| And although all snow that was thrown here was frozen
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| Nobody really thought it was so cool
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| Wasn’t the most socially appropriate
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| Mode of approaching the folk who would go to the law court
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| To report that he broke rules
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| Had a vote and of course they’d enforce he be stonewalled
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| He was caged and afraid, he would wave and say, «Hey»
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| To the kids, parents shaking their heads
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| And they would make them look away
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| Just as if he didn’t exist
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| And so Bob made the decision to begin making amends
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| Said, «Sorry, mama, never meant to hit you
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| Never meant to make you cry
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| So could I be freed now?»
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| I promise that I will throw no snow
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| I’ll go home, keep it on the low low, so
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| This town isn’t a no go zone no more
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| Just a cup of cocoa and a ho ho ho
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| No po po, yo, just a nice time, ah
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| Though uh-oh, yo, it’s the night time
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| Ah, and once the sunset’s done, the undead come so be afraid
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| They’re such a hungry bunch, they want to munch and eat your brains
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| Nowhere to run and hide, no they’ll just come inside
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| Wherever you put your bum, they’re going to come and find you
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| But Bob noticed the bloody loud commotion
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| Would have dove in but wasn’t allowed, the townsfolk
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| Just forbode him, it was foreboding to know
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| That he couldn’t go, no chucking snow, so he felt frozen
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| The zombies closed in, it was as though
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| They were hunting for something, enclosures were opened
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| Pumpkins were jumped, there was no clear motive
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| But phobia punching a pumpkin is odious
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| Bob took umbrage at his bros being broken
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| And broke those oaths that he won’t throw snow
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| He was ready to bury any undead in the area
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| With a bo, bo, bo, bo, bo
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| Go home, zombies, ain’t it obvious, we don’t want them
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| We got 'em good, got 'em gone, and with no problem
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| So the folk bestowed honors and wrote heroid songs
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| In honor of Bob the snow golem
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| And although they were so fond of him, doted on him
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| They couldn’t condone lobbing snow with no punishment
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| He was thrown back inside, like Bo Burnham
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| Was trapped in an iron and stone column, no comment
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| How could you live knowing you’ve done it? |
| Have you no honor?
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| Got me stuck here till the midsummer? |
| That’s some folk horror
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| Folks want to go on about having free will
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| Till you put 'em in a crowd more than three then they’re evil
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| That’s when Bob said, «Well, then I’ll be damned
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| If I let the crowd mentality get me down, I’m planning to throw down
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| You turned me barbaric like a snowcone Conan
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| Now feel the wrath of the snowman
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| Brap, brap, brap, run home and close the doors
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| I’m chucking frozen balls at you with no remorse
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| You could have brokered peace but now you’ve chosen war
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| I’ll suffer no defeat till every person falls
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| So every player be warned, this is the perfect storm
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| And till the weather’s turning warm
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| I’ll lob those snowballs at the locals till there are no more |