Fear fallacy of the heart.
That pixie-imp tongue will lick,
such a lovely home, such a lovely home.
Church pews down in the cabin, sugar in the morning.
I am sorry it had to turn out this way.

A budding saint, a rooted yell,
these are my friends, and we work early.
You won’t see a soul in these woods and charms,
but every star will scream a warning:
They have gifts in the ground,
for candor culverins like you.
 
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