Look at the big flakes come drifting down,
Twisting and turning, round and round.
Covers the mailbox, the farm and the plow.
Even barbed wire seems - beautiful now.
Covers the station, covers the tracks.
Covers the footsteps of those who'll not be back.
Twisting and turning, round and round.
Covers the mailbox, the farm and the plow.
Even barbed wire seems - beautiful now.
Covers the station, covers the tracks.
Covers the footsteps of those who'll not be back.
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