Snow, snow, falling down;
Covering up my dirty old town.
Covers the garbage dump, covers the holes,
Covers the rich homes, and the poor souls,
Covers the station, covers the tracks,
Covers the footsteps of those who'll not be back.
Under the street lamp, there stands a girl,
Looks like she's not got a friend in this world.
Look at the big flakes come drifting down,
Twisting and turning, round and round.
Covers the mailbox, the farm and the plow.
Even barbed wire seems — beautiful now.
Covers the station, covers the tracks.
Covers the footsteps of those who'll not be back.