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one yard bard
And where’s the fire that she cried of?
And where’s the gun fight where this thing died of?
And where’s the sting that she sang of?
And where’s the lip that she chewed off?
And where’s the nails that she scratched off?
And where’s the nose that she saw off?
And where’s the rope I tried to swing off?
And where’s the page that she tore off?
And where’s the heart that she fried off?
And where’s the truth that I lied off?
And where’s the table that we ate off?
And where’s the bed where we got off?
And where’s the sun that she sought of?
It’s not there; it’s not there.
It’s not there; it’s not there.
It’s not there; it’s not there.
It’s not there, it’s at…
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© 2007 andrew plummer
 
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