| 6.30 is just way too early
|
| To get up this cold December morning
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| Though as long as she insists on being the theme to my every single dream
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| That coffee it is a calling
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| I find myself down the stairs
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| Lazy dog gives me the eye
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| And I drag our bones around the 'barns
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| And catch the morning light
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| The damp leaves and the low-blown smoke
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| They whisper me to Creagh
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| With afternoons chasing the rain
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| And storms disturbing sleep
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| The open fire warmed your heart
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| And I wish I had taken the moment
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| To let you know just who you were
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| And why you meant so much that morning
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| For the first time in an age we’d been travelling
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| We’d been picking mushrooms and were sitting on some wall
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| You pulled a rosary from your pocket
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| And we laughed at how it was worn
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| You said «the girl on the train wasn’t giving me an eye. |
| She was just wary I’d
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| steal her bags»
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| And you offered your arms and a flask of Bowmore
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| And into the pair I sank
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| And then we drank ourselves together
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| And then we walked each other home
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| This night has cleared my senses
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| I just don’t want to be alone |