| When winter’s shadowy fingers |
| First pursue you down the street |
| And your boots no longer lie |
| About the cold around your feet |
| Do you spare a thought for summer whose passage is complete? |
| Whose memories lie in ruins |
| And whose ruins lie in heat? |
| When winter… |
| Comes howling in |
| When the wind is singing strangely |
| Blowing music through your head |
| And your rain splattered windows |
| Make you decide to stay in bed |
| Do you spare a thought for the homeless tramp who wishes he was dead? |
| Or do you pull the bed-clothes higher |
| Dream of summertime instead? |
| When winter… |
| Comes howling in |
| The creeping cold has fingers |
| That caress without permission |
| And mystic crystal snowdrops |
| Only aggravate the condition |
| Do you spare one thought for the gypsy with no secure position? |
| Who’s turned and spurned by village and town |
| At the magistrate’s decision? |
| When winter… |
| Comes howling in |
| When the turkey’s in the oven |
| And the Christmas presents are bought |
| And Santa’s in his module |
| He’s an American astronaut |
| Do you spare one thought for Jesus, who had nothing but his thoughts? |
| Who got busted just for talking |
| And befriending the wrong sorts? |
| When winter… |
| Comes howling in |
| When winter… |
| Comes… |
| Howling… |
| In |