| The golden sun is ever gentle in the Valley of Making
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| Where it’s the middle of the Autumn when it isn’t high Spring
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| There are men of many colors and women of all races
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| Wearing white, white linen
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| And smiles on their faces —
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| Blue rose…
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| There are roses round the edges of the grand property
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| The words «Labor, Ardor, Langdor» are its lovely trinity
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| And when you see just how they dress and how they speak and act too
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| Well all you’ll want to do is dress up in their white linen too —
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| Blue rose and drew the curtain back on the morning…
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| And you said holly-hey, and with a teary tilt
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| For you were rudely made, and shoddy built
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| Between the thumb and the forefinger
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| Barefoot pressed, he hoists his trouser leg
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| She lifts her dress
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| O these men of many colors in their creamy white suits
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| With their different colored hands dig in the soil for their roots
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| Of the dreamy conversation that the slender women make
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| As they sip from slender glasses by the vineyard lake —
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| Blue rose and drew the curtain back on the morning
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| Blue rose and every little thing was gilt and suffering no more…
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| If you could see the people laughing and not here the sound it makes
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| Then you could keep the good opinion that the tone of voice takes
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| If you could see the people laughing and not here the sound it makes — it goes.
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| There’s a woman there among them who with red, red eyes
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| Says you haven’t been a’working hard enough on your lies
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| The golden sun is ever gentle and one lie follows another in
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| The only way to get there is by singing brother, singing
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| There are women of all races, men in white, white linen
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| And the only way to get there is to sing sister, sing sister, sing —
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| And draw the curtain back on the morning
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| Blue rose and every little thing was gilt and suffering no more
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| Blue rose and drew the curtain back on the morning…
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| Where the wars were not for wearing
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| The ghettoes never got
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| To each lonely, lonely person their own shovel, their own plot
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| Have you ever heard a rattle way on down when people sigh
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| Way on down the silly rattle says you’re happy when you die |