| Then came the question and it was about time.
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| The answer came back and it was long.
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| The house it was built by some man in a rhyme,
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| But whatever came of his talented son?
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| Who wrote me a dialogue set to a tune?
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| Always you told me of being alone,
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| Except for the stories about God and you,
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| And do you still live there in Buffalo?
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| They put up the walls with no more to say,
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| Nobody stopped to ask why it was done.
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| The stream was too far and the rain was too high,
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| So into the city the river did run.
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| Because of the architect the buildings fell down,
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| Smothered or drowned all the seeds which were sown.
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| I wish I were somewhere, but not in this town.
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| Maybe the ocean next time around.
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| I seem to remember the face and the name,
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| But if it’s not you I won’t care.
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| I know of changes, but nothing would change you
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| To Theo the sailor who sings in his lair.
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| And then I’ll turn and he won’t be there,
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| Dusky black windows to light the dark stair,
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| Candles all gnarled in the musty air
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| All without flames for many’s the year. |