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Macaroon
©2003 Gibbens/Weston

That big orange rising moon
Like a macaroon
Comes shining down on London town tonight
And the dry leaves flow,
And the west wind whispers where to go,
And the summertime hits an all-time low.
One sleepless buffoon,
Scribbling this tune,
Feels like a sneeze tonight
Might well set this whole old world alight.

In this work you’re fired,
Dust to dust inspired,
And dream seems to hold the upper hand,
And you’ll come to grief
Like a thief, in brief, if you keep belief
When not to would be a real relief.
But, chief, though I’m tired,
I hope I’m required
And I’ll wait to get hired,
Though you can’t find a rubber band
That works right in this troubled land.

 

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