| there once was a wee laddie-o who lived not so very long ago
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| who had a brother with a heart of gold, they soon grew into men
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| the younger had never walked, because of this he never had
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| the brighter view and attitude, curse to live in a wheelie chair
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| days went by, the story goes, they got the gift for making clothes
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| shirts and britches, coats and socks, bluses, kilts and hats and socks
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| one day after closing shop his brother wheeled him for a drop
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| down at the pub when the locals drink, speaking in low tones
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| tailor, tailor, all alone in the tavern sewing clothes
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| tailor, tailor, don’t believe in things that walk at night
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| well he sat there sipping, mended clothes
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| listening to those who’d never spent the night
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| beside the stone and graves on haunted hill
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| he said «Roll me up, we’ll make a bet, i’ll spend the night all by myself
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| to prove there ain’t no ghosts that haunt the stones on graveyard hill»
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| tailor, tailor, all alone in the tavern sewing clothes
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| tailor, tailor, don’t believe in things that walk at night
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| believe in things that haunt the moonlight
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| well he sat there in the moonlight, he sat there mending clothes
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| he was shocked to see a big skeleton standing in the graveyard 10 feet tall
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| he tried to kill the tailor, but he glanced him smashing stones
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| he took his flight for his life and walked around for evermore
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| tailor, tailor, all alone in the tavern sewing clothes
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| tailor, tailor, don’t believe in things that walk at night
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| believe in things that haunt the moonlight |