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Well I'll sing you the story of a sorrowful lad |
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Had everything he wanted, didn't want what he had |
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He had wealth and pelf and fame and name and all of |
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That noise |
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But he didn't have none of those simple joys |
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His life seemed purposeless and flat |
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Aren't you glad you don't feel like that? |
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So he ran from all the deeds he'd done, he ran from |
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Things he'd just begun |
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He ran from himself, now that's mighty far to run |
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Out into the country where he played as a boy |
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He knew he had to find him some simple joys |
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He wanted someplace warm and green |
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We all could use a change of scene |
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Sweet summer evenings, hot wine and bread |
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Sharing your supper, sharing your bed |
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Simple joys have a simple voice: |
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It says why not go ahead? |
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And wouldn't you |
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Rather be a left-handed flea |
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A crab on a slab at the bottom of the sea |
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Than a man who never learns how to be free |
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Not 'til he's cold and dead |
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|
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And wouldn't you |
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Rather be a left-handed flea |
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A crab on a slab at the bottom of the sea |
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A newt on the root of a banyan tree |
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Than a man who never learns how to be free |
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Not till the day he dies! |
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|
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Sweet summer evenings, sapphire skies |
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Feasting your belly |
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Feasting your eyes |
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Simple joys have a simple voice: |
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It says time's a living prize |
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And wouldn't you |
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Rather be a left-handed flea |
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A crab on a slab at the bottom of the sea |
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A newt on the root of a banyan tree |
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Or a fig on a twig in Galilee |
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Than a man who never learns how to be free |
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Not till the day he |
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Not till the day he |
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Not till the day |
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Not till the day he |
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Dies! |