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I can't believe that it's so cold |
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And there ain't been no snow. |
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The sound of music it comes to me |
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From every place |
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I go. Sunday morning, there's no one in church |
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But the clergy's chosen man |
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And he is fine |
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I won't worry about him |
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Got the book in his hand. |
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There's a bitter east wind and the fields are swaying |
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The crows are round their nests. |
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I wonder what he's in there saying |
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To all those souls at rest. |
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I see the path which led to the door |
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And the clergy's chosen man |
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Bushes and briars, you and |
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I Where do we stand? |
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I wonder if he knows |
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I'm here Watching the briars grow. |
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And all these people beneath my shoes, |
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I wonder if they know. |
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There was a time when every last one |
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Knew a clergy's chosen man |
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Where are they now? |
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Thistles and thorns |
|
Among the sand. |
|
I can't believe that it's so cold |
|
And there ain't been no snow. |
|
The sound of music it comes to me |
|
From every place |
|
I go. Sunday morning, there's no one in church |
|
But the clergy's chosen man |
|
Bushes and briars, thistles and thorns |
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Upon the land. |
