| Twelve-hundred miles, it’s length and breadth
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| That four-square city stands
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| It’s gem-set walls of jasper shine
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| They’re not made by human hands
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| One-hundred miles, it’s gates are wide
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| Abundant entrance there
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| With fifty miles of elbow room
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| On either side to spare
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| When the gates swing wide on the other side
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| Just beyond the sunset sea
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| There’ll be room to spare as we enter there
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| There’ll be room for you and room for me
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| For the gates are wide on the other side
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| Where the fairest flowers bloom
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| On the right hand and on the left hand
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| Fifty miles of elbow room
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| Sometimes I’m cramped and I’m crowded here
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| And I long for elbow room
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| Now I long to reach for altitude
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| Where the fairest flowers bloom
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| It won’t be long before I pass
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| Into that city fair
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| With fifty miles of elbow room
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| On either side to spare |