They’ll fly across the street tonight, to trill
Their songs of Christmas joy to all in sight.
They will not sing about their plight, their shrill
Young voices only echo true delight.
The young boys’ home had burned to ash last year:
A hundred orphans left behind and spurned.
But when their school time had adjourned, ‘twas clear:
For them, the youth, their Christmas cheer returned.
I’ll open up the door to see; perchance
I might be able to forget that we
Cannot foresee, for us, a new romance.
Those days have passed, yet I will disagree:
If those young lads can look beyond their past,
Our love cannot have been our first and last.
Their songs of Christmas joy to all in sight.
They will not sing about their plight, their shrill
Young voices only echo true delight.
The young boys’ home had burned to ash last year:
A hundred orphans left behind and spurned.
But when their school time had adjourned, ‘twas clear:
For them, the youth, their Christmas cheer returned.
I’ll open up the door to see; perchance
I might be able to forget that we
Cannot foresee, for us, a new romance.
Those days have passed, yet I will disagree:
If those young lads can look beyond their past,
Our love cannot have been our first and last.
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