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By Sandy Denny. U.F.O. Music, Inc. (C) 1972) I can't believe that it's so cold And there ain't been no snow. The sound of music it comes to me >
From every place I go. Sunday morning, there's no one in church, But the clergy's chosen man And he is fine I won't worry about him. Got the book in his hand. Oh, there's a bitter east wind, and the fields are swaying, The crows are round their nests. I wonder what he's in there a saying To all those souls at rest. I see the path which lead to the door, And the clergy's chosen man. Bushes and bria
You and I, Where do we stand? I wonder if he knows I'm here, Watching the briars grow. And all these people beneath my shoes, I wonder if they know. There was a time when every last one, Knew a clergy's chosen man. Where are they now? Thistles and thorns, Among the sand. I can't believe that it's so cold And there ain't been no snow. The sound of music it comes to me >
From every place I go. Sunday morning, there's no one in church, But the clergy's chosen man Bushes and briars, Thistles and thorns Upon the land.
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