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With Song
All these rubies are but ragged and pale,
Germs that have seen little of life's bail.
We are joyful mourners of a dying clan.
[Move me,
with song I may....
Give little hope to the next that came.]
As we dodge little of their toys' pellets,
With song we toil and dance with our
placards.
With song we roared fearless of time.
[Move me,
with song I may....
Give little hope to the next that came.]
We nest the ones vulnerable of tomorrow,
cushioning their wills and hopes and the
next may follow.
Embed our spirits with sprinkles of courage.
[Move me,
with song I may....
Give little hope to the next that came.]
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