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(Brooker / Fisher / Reid) For you (whose eyes were opened wide whilst mine refused to see) I'm sore in need of saving grace. Be kind and humour me I'm lost amidst a sea of wheat where people speak but seldom meet And grief and laughter, strange but true Although they die, they seldom cry An ode by any other name I know might read more sweet Perhaps the sun will never shine upon my field of wheat But still in closing, let me say for those too sick, too sick to see though nothing shows, yes, someone knows I wish that one was me |
