| When I was a tyke
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| I said, «What I like
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| Is art
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| I know I’m a boy
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| But what I enjoy
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| Is art.»
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| Looking at paintings, going to plays
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| Music and books informing my days
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| Filling my mind
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| Flooding my heart
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| With art!
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| I had this dream of becoming an artist
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| A painter, a poet, who knows?
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| I had a nice little talent for drawing
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| And a natural feeling for prose
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| I even began to compose
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| So many talents
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| Wasn’t I blessed?
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| All of them good
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| A few of them better
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| None of them best
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| Just enough talent
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| To know that I hadn’t the talent
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| So I put my dream
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| And my self-esteem
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| To rest
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| That must have been difficult
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| Yes. |
| But it didn’t matter. |
| I merely had to find out what I was meant to be
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| (sung)
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| I couldn’t decide
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| Then one day I spied
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| Palm Beach
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| A speck on the map
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| No more than a gap
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| Palm beach
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| Jungle and seashore, muddy and raw
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| But in a flash I suddenly saw
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| What it would take
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| What I could make
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| Palm Beach!
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| I had this dream of a city of artists
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| Versailles by the Florida sea
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| A sort of world congregation of artists
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| All encouraged to set themselves free
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| I knew what I wanted to be!
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| I’d be their host and supporter
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| The patron saint
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| Of the things that they’d write
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| And compose and paint
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| I shall wander among them with lavish praise
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| As they carve their statues
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| Construct their plays
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| Design their buildings
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| Recite their rhymes
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| Making modern art
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| Fit for modern times!
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| So many talents
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| Gathered en masse!
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| Painters and poets
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| Artists and dreamers
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| Watered like grass
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| And if the talent I have
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| Is for nurturing talent
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| Then succeed or fail
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| I will see they sail
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| First class
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| And my father can go stick it up his ass! |