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On the banks of the river, where the willows hang down, |
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Where the wild birds all warble with a low moaning sound, |
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Down in the hollow where the water runs cold, |
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It's there I have listened to the lies that you told. |
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Now I lie on my bed and I see your sweet face. |
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The past I remember, time cannot erase. |
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The letters you wrote me were written in shame, |
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And I know that your conscience still echos my pain. |
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Now the nights are so long, my sorrow runs deep. |
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Nothing is worse than a night without sleep. |
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I walk out alone, I look at the sky, |
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Too empty to sing, too lonesome to cry. |
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Now if the ladies were blackbirds and the ladies were thrushes, |
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I'd lie there for hours in the chilly cold marshes. |
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If the ladies were squirrels with them high bushy tails, |
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I'd fill up my shotgun with rock salt and nails. |