Dressed in black, dressed in red, standing ready,

Made of wood, they march through the snow.

Through the trees, up the hill and down the other side,

They march in the night under a cold, cloudy sky.

March! march a soldiers march,

These wooden soldiers never stop.

March along the streets while the snow falls on down,

This magical place, this Christmas town,

A soldiers march is what they know,

As the clock strikes twelve, all stand in a row.

Keith Garrett


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