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Sit down by the fire |
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And I'll tell you a story |
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To send you away to your bed |
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Of the things you hear creeping |
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When everyone's sleeping |
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And you wish you were out here instead |
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It isn't the mice in the wall |
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It isn't the wind in the well |
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But each night they march |
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Out of that hole in the wall |
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Passing through on their way |
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Out of hell |
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They're the things that you see |
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When you wake up and scream |
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The cold things that follow you |
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Down the Boreen |
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They live in the small ring of trees on the hill |
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Up at the top of the field |
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And they dance on the rain |
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And they dance on the wind |
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They tap on the window |
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When no-one is in |
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And if ever you see them |
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Pretend that you're dead |
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Or they'll bite off your head |
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They'll rip out your liver |
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And dance on your neck |
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They dance on your head |
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They dance on your chest |
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They give you the cramp |
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And the cholic for jest |
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They're the things that you see |
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When you wake up and scream |
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The cold things that follow you |
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Down the Boreen |
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They live in the small ring of trees on the hill |
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Up at the top of the field |
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They play on the wind |
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They sing on the rain |
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They dance on your eyes |
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They dance in your brain |
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Remember this place |
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It is damp and it's cold |
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The best place on earth |
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But it's dark and it's old |
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So lie near the wall |
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And cover your head |
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Good night and God bless, |
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Now fuck off to bed |