| Pretty Polly, please come on down
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| From your home home high up off the ground
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| In the tree dark and forlorn
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| Where the rope hangs bruised and worn
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| Though I’ll never fly to you
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| It’s the last thing I would do
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| You have dug two holes so deep
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| I’m afraid that one’s for me
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| Pretty Polly must I cry
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| Without your voice I’ll fear I’d die
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| The song you sing and the story you tell
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| We must keep them to ourselves
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| Oh I know my voice like nightingale
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| Now I have my brand new tale
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| Of a tree dark and forlorn
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| Where a rope hang bruised and worn
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| Petty Polly, I have bread
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| That I have not eaten yet
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| Come and take them from my thalls
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| Then we’ll lay your song to rest
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| I suppose my song can wait
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| For I am hungry and grows late
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| I will eat your bread and then
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| I will sing my song a-gain
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| Pretty Polly, I had no choice
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| Stop your heart and steal your voice
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| One more little body so still
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| One more little hole to fill |