| There’re all kinds of roses
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| But none are as handsome as the ones
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| That you own hands have grown
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| They bring as much hope
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| Leave as much satisfaction
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| As anything I’ve ever known
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| But it ain’t in their petals
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| That I’m seeking the fortune
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| It’s in the weeds and the hedges and lawns
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| Of the fortunate people
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| Who can stand in their gardens
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| And feel only time marching on
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| With the world on a string
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| To remind them of where they can go
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| And what they oughta be
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| Without a whole lot to say
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| To the fella they pay
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| To cut the grass growing underneath their feet
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| A rose can’t see its own beauty
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| Or feel what it’s meant to symbolize
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| It doesn’t stop and smell anything on its journey
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| From the soil to the light
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| Just wants the best for itself and its family
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| And God help me so do I
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| And so does everybody
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| So I head out each morning
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| With a smile and a wave
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| For whomever looks up from their work
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| 'Cause who knows in a while
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| It could be my own child
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| With the world on a string
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| To remind her of where she can go
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| And what she oughta be
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| Without a whole lot to say
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| To the fella she pays
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| To cut the grass growing underneath her feet
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| May green grow the grass undernath our children’s feet |