paroles de chanson Old Ghosts - Jethro Tull
                                                Hair 
                                                stands 
                                                high 
                                                on 
                                                the 
                                                cat′s 
                                                back 
                                                like
 
                                    
                                
                                                    A 
                                                ridge 
                                                of 
                                                threatening 
                                                hills.
 
                                    
                                
                                                Sheepdogs 
                                                howl, 
                                                make 
                                                tracks 
                                                and 
                                                growl 
                                                ---
 
                                    
                                
                                                Their 
                                                tails 
                                                hanging 
                                                low.
 
                                    
                                
                                                And 
                                                young 
                                                children 
                                                falter 
                                                in 
                                                their 
                                                games
 
                                    
                                
                                                At 
                                                the 
                                                altar 
                                                of 
                                                life's 
                                                hide-and-seek
 
                                    
                                
                                                Between 
                                                tall 
                                                pillars, 
                                                where 
                                                Sunday-night 
                                                killers
 
                                    
                                
                                                In 
                                                grey 
                                                raincoats 
                                                peek.
 
                                    
                                
                                                I′ll 
                                                be 
                                                coming 
                                                again 
                                                like 
                                                an 
                                                old 
                                                dog 
                                                in 
                                                pain
 
                                    
                                
                                                Blown 
                                                through 
                                                the 
                                                eye 
                                                of 
                                                the 
                                                hurricane
 
                                    
                                
                                                Down 
                                                to 
                                                the 
                                                stones 
                                                where 
                                                old 
                                                ghosts 
                                                play.
 
                                    
                                
                                                Misty 
                                                colours 
                                                unfold 
                                                    a 
                                                backcloth 
                                                cold 
                                                ---
 
                                    
                                
                                                Fine 
                                                tapestry 
                                                of 
                                                silk
 
                                    
                                
                                                    I 
                                                draw 
                                                around 
                                                me 
                                                like 
                                                    a 
                                                cloak
 
                                    
                                
                                                And 
                                                soundless 
                                                glide 
                                                a-drifting
 
                                    
                                
                                                On 
                                                eddies 
                                                whirled 
                                                in 
                                                beech 
                                                leaves 
                                                furled 
                                                ---
 
                                    
                                
                                                Brown 
                                                and 
                                                gold 
                                                they 
                                                fly
 
                                    
                                
                                                In 
                                                the 
                                                warm 
                                                mesh 
                                                of 
                                                sunlight
 
                                    
                                
                                                Sifting 
                                                now 
                                                from 
                                                    a 
                                                cloudless 
                                                sky.
 
                                    
                                
                                                I'll 
                                                be 
                                                coming 
                                                again 
                                                like 
                                                an 
                                                old 
                                                dog 
                                                in 
                                                pain
 
                                    
                                
                                                Blown 
                                                through 
                                                the 
                                                eye 
                                                of 
                                                the 
                                                hurricane
 
                                    
                                
                                                Down 
                                                to 
                                                the 
                                                stones 
                                                where 
                                                old 
                                                ghosts 
                                                play.
 
                                    
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