| I see angels hanging from the trees
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| I hear psalms of kings through poetry
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| I make moments out of everything
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| it feels so warm when I am dreaming
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| where England’s gates are always swinging
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| through fountains joy is ringing
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| hillside towns and empty dales
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| are whispering the winsome tales of William Blake
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| True love is an art form
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| temptation is its partner
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| when I swing you round the chandeliers
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| we laugh at all life’s problems
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| Where church bells ring out loudly
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| and people smile so proudly
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| for nature and its romance
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| or supernatural circumstance and William Blake
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| William Blake sitting in the garden
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| William Blake no familiar jargon
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| Willam Blake dreaming in the theatre
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| William Blake don’t forget the paint dear
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| The monarchy is getting old
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| and bonfires of books are burning coal
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| imagination’s faltering
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| at night we here the soldiers marching
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| well England’s pubs are thinning out
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| and station guards are staring down
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| from chimney tops and cold gray towers
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| war has come and we need William Blake
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| William Blake sitting in the garden
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| William Blake no familiar jargon
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| William Blake laughing at the unknown
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| William Blake recites another poem
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| William Blake dreaming in the theatre
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| William Blake don’t forget the paint dear
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| William Blake sitting in the garden
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| William Blake no familiar jargon |