| From your head grew two braids
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| Gold and long
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| Golden long hair, golden long hair
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| One braid on one side of your face hung
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| Cabled and calm
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| It seemed to say, as it swayed
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| That it hung there hoping to charm me
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| (Or somebody)
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| «Can you imagine me in your bed at dawn?»
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| Said your long hair, said your long hair
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| «or kids with my face, can you see them?
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| Tiny and blonde!»
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| The other braid on the other side of your face was lost
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| In the folds of your clothing, having stayed there this morning
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| When you got up and put your clothes on
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| It seemed to say as it lay down your shoulder blade
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| «Leave me alone! |
| Can’t you let me be tucked in then go?
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| Why do you gawk there with the prying long stare?
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| I know you think I could make you happy
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| If you could just stroke golden long hair
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| But you’re wrong there!»
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| So your two blonde braids sang me this song and, in between them, your
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| Face sang along, saying:
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| «Calm yourself down, Phil, be calm
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| You’ll find that the beautiful long braids that you fawn over aching to
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| Own
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| Do in fact sway for you, though not you alone
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| There is also that gold in your palm, on your shoulder, and everywhere
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| Where it belongs
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| So don’t try to say 'Spring is my own private dawn!'
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| Because us braids and cute faces make moms
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| And more laughing and licking and kids and their mouths
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| All living their lives in the throng.» |