Pogues

Sit down by the fire
And i'll tell you a story
To send you away to your bed
Of the things you hear creeping
When everyone's sleeping
And you wish you were out here instead
It isn't the mice in the wall
It isn't the wind in the well
But each night they march
Out of that hole in the wall
Passing through on their way
Out of hell
They're the things that you see
When you wake up and scream
The cold things that follow you
Down the boreen
They live in the small ring of trees on the hill
Up at the top of the field
And they dance on the rain
And they dance on the wind
They tap on the window
When no-one is in
And if ever you see them
Pretend that you're dead
Or they'll bite off your head