| Mr. Bell’s from a foreign place
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| His family all were farmers
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| He arrived from across the sea
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| And came to be next door
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| And he works his land
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| With a knowing hand
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| Though it’s very small
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| He makes it grow so well
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| In the changing garden of Mr. Bell
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| These are astors and edelweiss
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| And rows and rows of roses
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| Those are hives in the dogwood trees
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| For bees to come and go
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| It’s a wondrous site
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| In the morning light
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| And the earth is full
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| Every color every smell
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| In the changing garden of Mr. Bell
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| I once saw a photograph upon his mantle shelf
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| Of a beautiful lady a child in her arms
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| And a young Mr. Bell himself
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| I wondered out loud about them
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| And he answered in the strangest way
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| He just said, «Look, see how the garden grows
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| It’s always changing every day»
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| Mr. Bell has his morning tea
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| And I will bring his paper
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| See the sun through the curtain lace
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| Dapple his face and hands
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| Every day is new
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| There is much to do
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| Life’s a mystery
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| Full of secrets that might tell
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| In the changing garden of Mr. Bell
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| In the changing garden of Mr. Bell |