When you lay your head in bed my child,   I'll sing you something sweet,   Like "when I'm older losing my hair,   many years from now."   And if perchance you wake, my child,   you'll find us right upstairs.   And I know you'll run but if it's not done,   would you lock the door?      But I hope that you will dream   of floating down, not crawling up   the stairs to where you're safe,   but still listening for sounds and waiting,   for someone to save you from the dark. So start. . .       I'd still sing you that song my child,   but you're singing it now.   And now I'm older, losing my hair.