| I was wielding my axe
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| drunk whisky at the bar
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| every night coming home
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| out the windshield of my car
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| I would look through the boughs
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| and think I saw my lucky star.
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| I was spreading my sheets
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| took dinner all alone
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| every night of the week
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| awaiting by the phone.
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| I would dab off my tears
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| with my favorite pine cone.
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| Needle prick my spruce root.
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| Dear little hemlock shoot,
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| Make me stay sharp,
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| and keen and evergreen.
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| I would tend to my bees
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| sell honey on the road
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| every fall in the wet
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| watching lorries take their load
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| And Iў‚¬"ўd get all my winnings
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| ask for special sap in code
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| In August three weeks
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| Iў‚¬"ўm back in village where I clip
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| all sorts of brambles and thorns
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| From up the hill I pip
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| In a little clay cup
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| the stuff I cross myself and sip.
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| Needle prick my spruce root
|
| Dear little hemlock shoot
|
| Make me stay sharp
|
| and keen, evergreen.
|
| I was casting my line
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| angling way the day.
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| The stream was swift, it was clear,
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| But the light was getting gray.
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| I bent down by the thistle
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| and thought of what it was Iў‚¬"ўd say.
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| Needle prick my spruce root
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| Dear little hemlock shoot
|
| Make me stay sharp
|
| And keen, evergreen. |