| We’re chippin' at the moon with an old bone
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| Issa and her sister chip until the moon is gone
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| An endless row of wagons in the snow
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| Issa grabs her sister says c’mon let’s go ‘cause
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| Yeah, I think I’ll write a haiku
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| Well, you know as well as I do
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| You gotta, gott have a high IQ
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| So eat this and have a cup of tea
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| Widow lighting lamps at cock crow
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| Sengai stamps to help his blood flow
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| From his brush figures rush
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| In the middle sits a poet
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| Almost smothered, almost crushed, crying
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| «yeah, I think I’ll write a haiku…»
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| (Systole, diastole
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| Dealing with the parts but
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| Feeling with the whole.)
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| Yo!
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| Han Shan’s tears, small worlds
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| Resting on the spears of warlords
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| In the wood a drop of blood
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| Hits an inky pond which ripples as it should… |