On The Inside

The snow its coming, coming down
On white and weary cloud-lit town.
The cold she's blowing, blowing in,
Bringing with it vice and sin.
The sun he's hiding, hiding well;
Everyone has lights to sell.
The dwarf is selling, selling all;
Every ticket to the ball.
The winter whistles, whistles shrill,
Setting up to make the kill,
And here I'm sitting, sitting slouched;
Legs all tucked up on my couch;
My lamps they're glowing, glowing soft,
Quilts and blankets in my loft.
My story's done; it’s done and told;
I've finally come in from the cold.