| I’m not politically ticklish and theory makes me weary,
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| And affairs of state aren’t my kind of affairs,
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| And I’d never bed nor much less wed,
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| The wack whose flag is deepest red,
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| My tastes run more to London derrires…
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| But at rallies in the night with all the torches burning bright,
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| I feel a stirring that I can’t neglect,
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| And I’ll grasp with mad abandon any lad with an armband on,
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| Whose cute salute is many and erect.
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| I like the boots,
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| I like the attitude,
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| I like the point at which the legal meets the lewd.
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| I like the thrill,
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| Of the triumphant will,
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| I like the marching and the music and the mood.
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| So if some blond and blue-eyed boy,
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| Would like to teach me strength through joy,
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| So that my liberal tendencies are cured,
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| If it should be decreed by fate,
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| That you invade my neighbouring state,
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| That my frontiers will be open, rest assured.
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| And at rallies in the night with all the torches burning bright,
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| I feel a stirring that I can’t neglect,
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| And I’ll grasp with mad abandon any lad with an armband on,
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| Whose cute salute is many and erect.
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| I like the boots,
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| I like the attitude,
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| I like the point at which the legal meets the lewd.
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| I like their skin,
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| I like the discipline,
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| And the enormous sense of license it provides.
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| And when they say «Hi»…
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| And when they say «Hi»!
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| I smile and liquefy inside,
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| And when they say «Hi»!
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| I smile and liquefy inside,
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| And when they say «Hi»! |