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I find it difficult to |
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Relax in the summertime |
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With all the flowers in bloom |
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I creep across the countryside |
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With my net and my bait |
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And a pocketful of bailer twine |
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|
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I break the promises I made |
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As I box up all the butterflies |
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|
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I ruin |
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Everything |
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As I sit in a field of grass |
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In the spring |
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Listening |
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To the beat of its little heart |
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And to its wings |
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Struggling |
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For air under an upturned glass |
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And I put a pin |
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Through its wings |
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And I bottle it up, |
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I box it up, |
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And bury it in my heart |
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|
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Just as I know my friends |
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I also know my enemies |
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Are the birds and the bees |
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And my own little insecurities |
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|
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I creep around in the dark |
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And I tear up all the dandelions |
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And I break my own heart |
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As I box up all the butterflies |
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|
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Tirelessly, |
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Following |
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Its tiny butterfly tracks |
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Across the field in the spring |
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With a plastic carrier bag |
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|
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Full of fish, |
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Hooks, and string |
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I lay a little matchbox trap |
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And I put pin |
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Through its wings |
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|
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And I bottle it up, |
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I box it up |
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And bury it in my heart |
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|
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I folded up its furry wings |
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And opened up its little heart |
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It might sound stupid |
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But something about it made me want to pull it apart |
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|
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I ruin |
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Everything |
|
As I sit in a field of grass |
|
In the spring |
|
Listening |
|
To the beat of its little heart |
|
And to its wings |
|
Struggling |
|
For air under an upturned glass |
|
And I put a pin through its wing |
|
|
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And I bottle it up, |
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I box it up, |
|
And bury it in my heart. |