| I woke still half-dreaming I was falling out of the trees
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| And tumbling down into the sky
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| It’s cold, so cold sometime before dawn
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| Searching for a light and reaching round for my clothes
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| That we believe, so must call, rise
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| The convoys roll into the coming daylight
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| Let it not be said that everything must die
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| Without some mark being made of its passing
|
| Ch: As if all the world should now hold its breath
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| These are the days that we’ll recall
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| When the masks are off the faces
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| And there’s something to fight for
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| All the lines drawn down in the Soul
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| You can let your anger burn crazy
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| There’s talking-drums echoed down towards the Kennet Canal
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| And wood-smoke sweet on the air
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| And the Yellow Jackets stand with the Thick Blue Line
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| Backs to the woods in the fresh thin carpet of snow
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| Snelsmore Wood, The Chase, Enbourne Road
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| Reddings Copse, Tothill down through Andover Grove
|
| Let it not be said that everything must die
|
| Without some mark being made of its passing
|
| Ch: As if all the world should now hold its breath. |
| . |