I flew in on the evening plane.
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Is it such a good idea that I am here again?
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And I could cut my cold breath with a knife.
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And taste the winter of another life.
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A yellow cab from JFK, the long way round.
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I didn¡¯t mind: gave me thinking time before I ran aground
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on rocky memories and choking tears.
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I believe it only rained round here in thirty years.
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Now, it¡¯s the first snow on Brooklyn and my cold feet are drumming.
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You don¡¯t see me in the shadows from your cozy window frame.
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And last night, who was in your parlour wrapping presents in the late hour
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to place upon your pillow as the morning came?
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Thin wind stings my face: pull collar up.
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I could murder coffee in a grande cup.
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No welcome deli; there¡¯s no Starbucks here.
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A dime for a quick phone call could cost me dear.
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And the first snow on Brooklyn paints a Christmas card upon the pavement.
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The cab leaves a disappearing trace and then it¡¯s gone.
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And the snow covers my footprints, deep regrets and heavy heartbeats.
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When you wake you¡¯ll never see the spot that I was standing on.
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Some things are best forgotten: some are better half-remembered.
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I just thought that I might be there on your, on your Christmas night.
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And the first snow on Brooklyn makes a lonely road to travel ?
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cold crunch steps that echo as the blizzard bites.
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First Snow On Brooklyn
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Jethro Tull |