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From your head grew two braids, |
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Gold and long, |
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Golden long hair, golden long hair. |
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One braid on one side of your face hung |
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Cabled and calm. |
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It seemed to say, as it swayed |
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That it hung there hoping to charm me |
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(Or somebody) |
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"Can you imagine me in your bed at dawn?" |
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Said your long hair, said your long hair. |
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"or kids with my face, can you see them? |
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Tiny and blonde!" |
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The other braid on the other side of your face was lost |
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In the folds of your clothing, having stayed there this morning |
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When you got up and put your clothes on. |
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It seemed to say as it lay down your shoulder blade |
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"Leave me alone! Can't you let me be tucked in then go? |
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Why do you gawk there with the prying long stare? |
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I know you think I could make you happy |
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If you could just stroke golden long hair. |
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But you're wrong there!" |
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So your two blonde braids sang me this song and, in between them, your |
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Face sang along, saying: |
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"Calm yourself down, Phil, be calm. |
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You'll find that the beautiful long braids that you fawn over aching to |
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Own, |
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Do in fact sway for you, though not you alone. |
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There is also that gold in your palm, on your shoulder, and everywhere, |
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Where it belongs. |
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So don't try to say 'Spring is my own private dawn!' |
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Because us braids and cute faces make moms |
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And more laughing and licking and kids and their mouths |
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All living their lives in the throng." |