| Down in the garden district
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| Where the plants grow strong and tall
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| Behind the bush there lurks a girl
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| Who makes them strong and tall
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| Villagers call her: quicklime girl
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| Behind her back: quicklime girl
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| Behind the bush: quicklime girl
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| She’s the mistress of the salmon salt: quicklime girl
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| In the fall when plants return
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| By harvest time, she knows the score
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| Ripe and ready to the eye
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| But rotten somehow to the core
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| Villagers call her: quicklime girl
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| Behind her back: quicklime girl
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| Behind the bush: quicklime girl
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| She’s the mistress of the salmon salt: quicklime girl
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| A harvest of life, or harvest of death
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| One body of life, one body of death
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| And when you’ve gone and choked to death
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| With laughter and a little step
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| I’ll prepare the quicklime, friend
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| For your ripe and ready grave
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| It’s springtime now and cares subside
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| And the planting’s almost done
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| And fertile graves, it seems, exist
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| Within a mile of that duke’s joint
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| Where coast guard crews still take their leave
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| Lying listless in the sun
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| And the quick lime girl still plies her trade
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| The reduction of the many from the one
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| And they call her: quicklime girl
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| Behind her back: quicklime girl
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| Behind the bush: quicklime girl
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| She’s the mistress of the salmon salt: quicklime girl
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| A harvest of life, a harvest of death
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| Resumes it’s course each day
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| Because it exists by schedule
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| A harvest to live, _____________________
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| And those that crawl, and those that chirp
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| And next life’s swans that seem to turn |