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They move, they touch. Perhaps too much. |
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They love to sing, only to be seen. |
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They are cross 'cause they are clean. |
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They are grave 'cause they are green. |
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By tongue, by teeth. |
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By fist or feet. |
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There's two on the nose, |
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It's bloodied and broke. |
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I hid to see. |
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Eyes full of rose. |
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She tips on her toes, |
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Her father's ears, |
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They are keen. |
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Late in a dream, |
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It remains to be seen |
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If his grave is in flames. |
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They move, they touch. Perhaps too much. |
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They love to sing, only to be seen. |
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They are cross 'cause they are clean. |
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They are grave 'cause they are green. |