| With his fool’s gold stacked up all around him
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| From a killing in the market on the war
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| The children left King Midas there, as they found him
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| In his counting house where nothing counts but more
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| And he thought he heard the echoes of a penny whistle band
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| And the laughter from a distant caravan
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| And the brightly painted line of circus wagons in the sand
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| Fading through the door into summer
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| With his travelogues of «maybe next year» places
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| As a trade-in for a name upon the door
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| And he pays for it with years he cannot buy back with his tears
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| When he finds out there’s been no one keeping score
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| And he thought he heard the echoes of a penny whistle band
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| And the laughter from a distant caravan
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| And the brightly painted line of circus wagons in the sand
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| Fading through the door into summer
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| (Yes he) Thought he heard the echoes of a penny whistle band
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| And the laughter from a distant caravan
|
| And the brightly painted line of circus wagons in the sand
|
| Fading through the door into summer
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| Fading through the door (Into summer)
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| Fading through the door into summer
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| Fading through the door into summer
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| Fading through the door into summer |