| The green leaves hang over rusty tin
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| And the porch roof is falling through
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| Blue morning glories bloom outside my room
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| And a field of white daisies, too.
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| I’ll wear my old coat and my overalls
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| I’ll wear my brogan shoes
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| My old felt hat and gold watch chain
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| And an honest face will do.
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| Where queen anne’s lace and bright goldenrod
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| And the green grasses wave so true
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| Where the bramble rose, so snow white grows
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| And the skies are always blue.
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| I’ll sing some old song that’s forgot and gone
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| I’ll play on the violin, too
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| And I might recite well into the night
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| Some story that’s known to be true.
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| Then just let me stay up here were the air is clear
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| And the cool rippling waters run down
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| In this shady mountain clime till the end of my time
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| On the slopes of Beech Mountain I’ll be found.
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