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C rying in the wind, we lean against the soft shoulder of a friend. H ow perfectly imperfect are we who sing, sing the songs end, O r sway hip round tones into the sun's shine and crystal glow, I nspiration seeps on Mozart's twinkle and blooms like red bordeau R ipe with pleasure ringing, we sing, through life's vehicle all aglow. Dedicated to my Minsiter of Music EdWard Thompson