| In a village in the woods, they plant a tree for every newborn babe
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| So they sowed the seed for a child named John and they watched it day by day
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| The tree, it grew in a very strange way, as twisted as a knot
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| And the child, he grew in the very same way and never would his parents have
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| thought
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| The lad was bright and he learned to read as well as he could talk
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| But his limbs were as twisted as the tree and never would he walk
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| People would come to stop and stare and you could hear them say
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| «It doesn’t seem to me to be quite fair,» and then be on their way
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| Sing a song of joy, lift your hearts in song
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| For a newborn boy, for a life that’s long
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| For a life that’s long
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| Now he loved the tree even though it was as twisted as himself
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| For somewhere deep inside his soul, he thought of nothing else
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| And the boy he grew, did the best he can, but his limbs remained the same
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| Well, whoever listens who will understand someone who is lame
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| Some came to cry, some came to laugh the day he passed away
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| He’s really not dead, he’s just taking a nap, I heard somebody say
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| I can’t explain, but the tree had died, it withered without love
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| But a stump remains to remind you of the man that he was
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| Sing a song of death, sing a song of peace
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| Sing a song of rest and a song of relief
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| Till the end of time
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| Till the end of time
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| Till the end of time |