| He’s got a little locket picture
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| Of the maids' commission
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| With bees blowing through the bushes
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| He makes the first incision
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| And these dolls race through the garden
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| A chef on boneless roses
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| Opens the bandages
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| This empty house discloses
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| What the guest’s dreams are hiding
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| As he rests above the arbor
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| With little flowers crying
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| For all their heads he’s harbored
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| And the then midnight market stalls
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| Fill with up chloroform
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| The face within his locket mouths
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| «Take off your uniform.»
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| They kiss him before parting
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| Then melt into his pockets
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| He’s trampling through the garden
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| And he’s got a little locket |