| Oh Angelina,
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| aren’t we lucky to live in this odd little world?
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| Aren’t we lucky to walk in this funeral line?
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| And if we marry,
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| I’ll kiss every tear from her eyes,
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| if we marry,
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| I’ll love every word from her lovely young mouth,
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| and we’ll drive past the violent blooms of the opulent south…
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| We walked past the cathedrals,
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| and the lampposts all humming,
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| and I told her that though
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| I can’t bend back the barbs of these wires,
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| aren’t we lucky to live in this world full of fire,
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| and I told her about how you would sing for your life as a child,
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| and I showed her azaleas and books of pressed flowers you pulled wild,
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| and I told her how lucky was all that I ever have been,
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| and will you marry me,
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| Kimberly Anne? |