| So there he was then, Penzance to play
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| Christmas Eve in a nowhere band
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| Now early morning Christmas Day
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| He’s hitching home to Geordieland
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| Last night the snow came, just my luck
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| And who the hell do you think you are
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| Climbing up into that truck
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| With your old bag and your guitar
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| And you, you would-be vagabond
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| No-one invited you, you know
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| Matchstick man, up in the dawn
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| You’ve got five hundred miles to go
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| The driver now must drop off his load
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| The snow still laying thick on the ground
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| Leaves him on a high crossroads
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| Where he can see for miles around
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| The sun is shining, sky is blue
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| And everything is white and bare
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| Not a car comes into view
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| There’s nothing moving anywhere
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| And you, you would-be vagabond
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| No-one invited you, you know
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| Matchstick man, you speck upon
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| These vast and silent plains of snow |