| My mother loved the summer
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| But not for the weather
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| She loved the mid-season plums
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| June, July, August sweet ones
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| My father kept them plenty
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| Always stocked in our pantry
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| Some ripe and some well past peak
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| Till she was too sick to eat
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| Still at my childhood home
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| The only home that I’ve known
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| I spent her last few weeks there
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| Watching her fade and wither
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| I know what I should have done
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| I should have buried those plums
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| Somewhere they wouldn’t be found
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| Let them turn pits in the ground
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| So he wouldn’t have to watch them wilt too
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| Cause my mother died in mid-June
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| And I knew, oh I knew
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| He couldn’t look at the fruit
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| No, he would just let them prune
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| No, he would just let them prune
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| My mother died in mid-June
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| And I knew, oh I knew
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| That day my father died too
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| That day my father died too |