| I could be like a snowflake
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| fallen all the way from heaven into a magpie’s nest,
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| only to place my powdered cheek gently upon his hairy
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| chest.
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| I could be his Maiden Marianne gift-wrapped in cloak
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| and silken hood,
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| oh, a robin-redbreast sitting high up in the tree-tops
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| of his mo (u)rning wood.
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| I need, I need a silver-furred
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| a sugar sugar-daddy-bear,
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| someone who loves the front of me,
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| who likes to pay and loves to care.
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| A frizzly ursus, strong but cute,
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| adorable in leather, denim or tweed-suit.
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| I’d polish silver, 'cause I long to be spooned
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| on the dark, dark side of the palest moon …
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| Mandrake grows beneath the gallows
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| in the shape of the one thing
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| that you should never swallow.
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| I know, he may look like the cutest thing you’ve ever
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| seen
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| but, Honey, we just don’t know
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| where this old thing of his had been …
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| I almost had a secret love affair
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| with a dead boy’s underwear.
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| I nicked it from the mortuary,
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| but the damn thing was far too small for me.
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| That’s why each time I hear the postman ring,
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| I can’t help wondering what he might bring.
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| Oh, will he have something for me,
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| and, if so, I wonder … how large will his package be?
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| The chimney-sweep, the chimney-sweep,
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| he came at two o’clock,
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| I showed him where the furnace was,
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| and he showed me his cock.
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| He wore a bomber-jacket, black, but his hair-cut was
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| crap,
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| it took him rather long to finish his annual check …
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| A sylvan stronghold for the golden child,
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| built and looked after by heart beguiled.
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| A guard, a servant and a loyal king,
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| a winter-garden and a thermal-spring … |