| When Winter’s shadowy fingers first pursue you down the street
|
| And your boots no longer lie about the cold around your feet
|
| Do you spare a thought for summer whose passage is complete
|
| Whose memories lie in ruins and whose ruins lie in heat
|
| When winter… comes howling in
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| When the wind is singing strangely, blowing music thru your head
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| And your rain splattered windows make you decide to stay in bed
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| Do you spare a thought for the homeless tramp who wishes he was dead
|
| Or do you pull the bedclothes higher, dream of summertime instead?
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| When winter… comes howling in
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| The creeping cold has fingers, that access with permission
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| And mystic crystal snowdrops only aggravate the condition
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| Do you spare a thought for the gypsy with no secure position
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| Who’s turned and spurned by village and town, at the magistrate’s decision?
|
| When winter… comes howling in
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| When the turkey’s in the oven, and the Christmas presents are bought
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| And Santa’s in his module, he’s an American astronaut
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| Do you spare a thought for Jesus, who had nothing but his thoughts
|
| Who gut busted just for talking, and befriending the wrong sorts?
|
| When winter… comes howling in
|
| When winter… comes howling in
|
| When winter' shadowy fingers first persue you down the street
|
| And your boot’s no longer lie about the cold around your feet
|
| Do you spare a thought for summer whose passage is complete
|
| Whose memories lie in ruins and whose ruins lie in heat
|
| When winter … comes howling in |