| What melancholy magic
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| Has turned a multitude into mush
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| Mandibles drop from shock
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| An old lady at high altitude
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| Whispering hush
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| She slips off her white shoes
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| And grabs her tenor pacifier
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| From its stand
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| Thirty half steps to the microphone
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| Smile on her face
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| Flower in her hand
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| Oh how a crowd can melt
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| When they’ve been dealt
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| Such a deliciously delicate blow
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| By a barefooted fairy
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| Not with a clang but a whisper
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| Totally stealing the show
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| Fools desire distraction
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| And not take to heart
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| Their faces to their gadgets fall south
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| Ignoring the beauty of a fog on a hill
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| And a kitten with a mouse in its mouth
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| A motley mob settles down
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| And there’s hardly a frown
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| As the air in the temple turns to mist
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| A spotlight, a mark and a cleanse of the throat
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| And her microphone gently is kissed
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| You can hear a boot lace
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| And a speck of dust taste
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| As the babe bravely stared down the herd
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| But she played not a note
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| And only one moment spoke
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| These simple and poignant five words
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| You people are totally absurd |