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 saying   To all those souls at rest.   I see the path which lead to the door,   And the clergy's chosen man.   Bushes and briars   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.