| One young fawn, in a maze
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| Eager-eyed and the milky haze
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| Scampers round, heavy feet
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| Spinny legs and knobbly knees
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| Twitching tail and tongue-in-cheek
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| She munches fruit from harlot trees
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| Looking smug and fresh and pleased
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| She wanders so sloppily and eats
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| She puts her hands up to the sky
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| She puts her hands up and she’s icing her lie
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| She puts her hands up to the sky
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| It makes her well up, it makes her well up
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| She puts her hands up to the sky
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| She puts her hands up and she’s icing her lie
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| She puts her hands up to the sky
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| It makes her well up, it makes her well up
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| She feels a lick, down her nape
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| It looks up with a fair glass face
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| The peeling palms of dirty hands
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| Jointed thumbs with drumstick ends
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| Yellow nails from pinching fags
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| A slimy creature lacking clad
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| He pulls his fingers from her mind
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| And lets her see, just like she was blind!
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| She puts her hands up to the sky
|
| She puts her hands up and she’s icing her lie
|
| She puts her hands up to the sky
|
| It makes her well up, it makes her well up
|
| She puts her hands up to the sky
|
| She puts her hands up and she’s icing her lie
|
| She puts her hands up to the sky
|
| It make her well up, it makes her well up |