| A young gypsy fell out in a slumber
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| Heading north with a driver he knew
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| Someone he’d lived with and trusted
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| A young woman who trusted him too
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| That very same day the young gypsy
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| Had come from a farm in the west
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| Where the children had played throughout the heat of the day
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| Affording the gypsy no rest
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| And the gypsy’s bones were weary
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| And the front seat looked secure
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| And the gypsy slept on until the sun it was gone
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| And the stars pierced the eyes of the girl at his side
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| The next morning’s day would be Easter
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| He’d dress in his only fine shirt
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| And shuffle through clusters of strangers
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| With his gaze and his shoes in the dirt
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| And the woman who loved him would watch him
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| Protect him from curious stares
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| For the womenfolk tend to be friendly
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| And the gypsy’s as young as he’s fair
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| And the evening brought on laughter
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| And jars of bright red wine
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| And the gypsy drank some and the gypsy had fun
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| And his dancing got wild and the grandmothers smiled
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| Sleeping came easily after
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| In the arms of the woman that fold
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| Up the secrets and dreams of the gypsy
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| That will never be sought or be sold
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| In fact, they will never be told
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| For the gypsy is two years old |