The clock ticks on towards twelve.
You'll be gone when the moment comes.
It's been the kind of year you have
when the rain eclipses the sun.
I strayed to the letters you sent.
You loved me - I loved your fun.
It's been the kind of year you have
where we close our eyes and run.
The clock grinds on to midnight.
They'll be up soon, seeing if he's been.
Maybe we'll still make this Christmas
the feel-good film we should have seen.
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