|written by Gary Marks © 1969 Arewea Co. ASCAP|
City coated, covered in snow fur, heavy snow sky,
white roofs and chilly flakey winds,
hurry on wet feet
I wish I could enjoy the view, but evening's arriving fast tonight and
I can feel that fire calling.
“Every November day is like Christmas.”
That's what you've been saying lately,
and lady I agree.
First snowfall, may as well store away the bicycles,
and all the lonelies asking for a quick ending,
trudging along through the dirty sludge, their fingers iced and achy,
thank God I can't remember too much more
of what is was like:
Seemed there was never any way out,
endless days of suspended lifetime,
night-time like iron chained blindness,
I just never thought I could find this kind of peace.
Don't move. . .
I just want to hold you a little, I'm really cold
and I can feel the chills escaping
like a bursting bubble out from me,
and I'm melting now into the warmth
I never thought I'd know again,
let's write “hello” on the frosted windows and
invite somebody in for dinner
in from the first snow falling.