The night was cold,
and I got bold.
In my arms though you mould,
words were never told.
I better not think of the night,
that was eight years old.

I thought you were a dream man,
and happily cherished thou.
I forgave your every mistake I can,
and made you happy though.
I better not think of the night,
that was eight years old.

I told myself that you were a dream,
and dared to bare my soul to thou.
But unfair on your part though,
to leave me in the cold.
I better not think of the night,
that was eight years old.

When I was gullible into my life, you stole,
while ridiculing me to the friends you told.
That night you had simply jeered at me, you told.
and threw my love I had at me, and you I can never hold.
I better not think of the night,
that was eight years old.

Today I see you sometimes in my dreams,
seeing you laughing to yourself through my weeps.
And all these dreams give me creeps,
throughout that dreadful night I sleep.
No, I better not think of the night,
that was eight years old.