| She stands and unfurls her
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| Clean bed clothes by the door
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| Like a barber shakes all that falls
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| From your shoulders to the floor;
|
| And I find a letter I’d once written
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| Half buried in her drawer
|
| And I wonder how I’ve come to know
|
| So much less than I knew before
|
| All over town, they’re lining up to watch
|
| As the carnival goes by
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| And tomorrow they’ll be sweeping up the streets
|
| And the last furloughed G.I.s;
|
| But by the early evening
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| You’ll wonder how it is and so will I
|
| That we ever let another Tuesday afternoon
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| Come and pass us by
|
| But I’m best to believe
|
| No more than I can carry when I leave
|
| And I’ll be fearing nothing save good luck
|
| Somebody’s burning something
|
| I can see the smoke from here
|
| Rising just above the hill and falling
|
| Like one last futile cheer;
|
| If I would’ve known the way it goes l’d’ve been the first to volunteer
|
| To climb up in the trees before aIl the ground around me disappeared
|
| But I’m best to believe
|
| No more than I can carry when I leave
|
| And I’ll be fearing nothing save good luck
|
| But I’m best to believe
|
| No more than I can carry when I leave
|
| And I’ll be fearing nothing save good luck |