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There is a place (believe me,
she said) where if, if
The night was as dark as an ink well,For the moon had gone visiting elsewhere,But by the scuffling sounds around me,I knew there was someone there.
Spring is baby,bright, fresh and new,gurgling with the melting snow,singing with the first cuckoo.
We don' have a Springtime like some folkWho live in dem colder place,but we have a time when de soft rain come,an' tease open de seedcaseo' de poincianna and de trumpet tree,
I spied a small lonely boy.I was his beautiful red balloon,from morning through to noon,