| Below the Po rolls slow from Alps to Adriatic Sea
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| Blow old bellows, blow
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| Take us where you will
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| Padua, Genoa, Corsica, Catalonia, O Segovia
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| O unfathomable firmament
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| That we should set a course between the two
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| Clinging only to our orb of blue and red
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| Like Romanovs to a Faberge egg
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| Push Sisyphus, push
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| Heave our sphere into the heavens
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| If I’m to die then let it be in summertime
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| In a manner of my own choosing
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| To fall from a great height
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| On a warm July afternoon
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| Liverwurst, Battenburg, Emmenthall, Syllabub, Muscadet
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| Throw it all away
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| We need more height
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| O Newton, release this apple from its earthly shackles
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| And live to fight another day
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| Go back from whence you came the swallows cry
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| You’ve corrupted and befouled the ground you walk upon
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| And now you come to poison the skies
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| Please friends, forgive this brief intrusion |