| When Steven Foster died
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| In thought this on the bury
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| His wone and wallward hill
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| Just a corner in the den
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| But the crocodile s back to eat
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| The crocodile s back to eat
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| He smashed his head on the sink
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| In the bitter fever of gin
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| The wildebeest go crazy with thirst
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| Pull down as he try to drink
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| But deep down in the smallest street
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| Even crocodiles dream their dreams
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| And as the heard galloped off
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| He may all night fall past 4
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| Singing Beautiful Dreamer
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| As the lions begin to roar
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| But we all have our beautiful dreams
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| Waiting for us like wildebeests
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| And when we wait at the river
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| To cross to that gleaming shore
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| The river show he s next to feed
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| As the feed thunders across
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| But the river has oceans to feed
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| She has beautiful ocean to feed
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| And the oceans, they feed the sky
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| And the sky feeds the earth
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| And Steven Foster s beautiful ghost
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| Laid down to feed us all
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| To feed took vows the songs
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| Echoing cross the wild plains |