| Me and the vivid girl
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| In our hammock to the stars
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| Staring into the fire before TV
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| The remote control’s on Mars
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| In the dope of the pigment
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| In a poetic state of mind
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| In a flood of the country
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| We lay down to kill some time
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| And we spoke languidly
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| Of the northern bee
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| And collecting dewdrops for tea
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| Underneath the cannonball tree
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| We were high, we were sherpa high
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| We conspired against old friends
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| We said we must be friends or die
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| And we’ve died a thousand times since then
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| And we spoke long, at length
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| Of the fight or flee
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| And of nothing in particularly
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| Underneath the cannonball tree
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| We spoke offhandedly
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| Of the new extremes
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| And of nothing in particularly
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| Underneath the cannonball tree
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| We’re at the point where we love or hate it
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| We can write it down and obliterate it
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| When we’re at the point when we neither love nor hate it
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| We can lay down and obliterate it |