| The blue it speaks so full
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| It’s like the beauty one can barely stand
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| Or too much things dropped in your hand
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| And there’s a green like the peace
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| In your heart, sometimes
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| Painted underneath the sheets of ashy snow
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| And there’s a blue like where the urban angels go, very bright
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| Now the Calder mobile tips a biomorphic sphere
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| Then it swings its dangling pieces 'round to other paintings here
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| Your behavior is so male
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| It’s like you can’t explain yourself to me
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| I think I’ll ask Renoir to tea
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| For his flowers are as real as they are, all the time
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| And the sunlight sets the furniture aglow
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| It’s a pleasant time as far as people go
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| How far do they go?
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| Well, his roses are perfect and his words have no wings
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| I know what he can give me and I like to know these things
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| I met her at the funeral
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| She said I don’t know what he meant to me
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| I just know he affected me
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| An effect not unlike his art, I believe
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| The service starts and we are in the know
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| He had so much to say, but more to show
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| And ain’t that true of life?
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| So we weep for a person who lived at great cost
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| And we barely knew his powers till we sensed that we had lost
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| A friend and I in a museum room
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| She says, «Look at Mark Rothko’s side
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| Did you know about his suicide?
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| Some folks were born with a foot in the grave
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| But not me, of course.»
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| And she smiles, as if to say we’re in the know
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| Then she names a coffee place where we can go, uptown
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| Now the painting is desperate, but the crowds wash away
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| In a world of kind pedestrians who’ve seen enough today |