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/. ./ -- sit down by the fire -- /. ./
Sit down by the fire It isnt the mice in the wall .
And Ill tell you a story It isnt the wind in the well
To send you away to your bed But each night they march
Of the things you hear creeping Out of that hole in the wall
When everyones sleeping Passing through on their way
And you wish you were out here instead Out of hell
Theyre the things that you see And they dance on the rain
When you wake up and scream And they dance on the wind
The cold things that follow you They tap on the window
Down the boreen When no-one is in
They live in the small ring of trees on the hill And if ever you see them
Up at the top of the field
Pretend that youre dead Theyre the things that you see
Or theyll bite off your head When you wake up and scream
. Theyll rip out your liver The cold things that follow you
And dance on your neck Down the boreen
They dance on your head They live in the small ring of trees on the hill .
They dance on your chest Up at the top of the field
. They give you the cramp
And the cholic for jest .
. They play on the wind .
They sing on the rain .
They dance on your eyes .
They dance in your brain :
. Remember this place
It is damp and its cold
. The best place on earth
. But its dark and its old .
: So lie near the wall .
..+.. And cover your head
: Good night and God bless,
. . Now fuck off to bed
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