| I miss the pungent sweetness of that firewood
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| July was poignant and dripping, July was mundane
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| Dipping my fingers off a lazy rowboat on the lake
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| Your birthday girl someplace upstate
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| Back when I was sure I was a misanthrope
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| Blaming my displeasures on the strangers laughing loudly in the woods
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| She walked to the water to watch the fireworks
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| But I wouldn’t give myself the view, I stayed in bed listening to them
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| Crack and bloom
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| I miss the pungent sweetness of that Woodford’s reserve
|
| July was poignant and dripping, July was mundane
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| Licking my fingers to get all of the icing from the cake
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| Your birthday girl some place in Maine
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| Back when I was sure I could win her over with my words
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| Holding the Portland sun above her in the summer storm
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| I mostly made her up and fell in love with the construct
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| And she could eventually tell so she wished me well
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| And as I gathered up my clothes, another storm began to close
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| And crack and bloom
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| Even inside my hands, it hurts to claim the confused, wounded little animal
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| I’ve been
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| Baby, I’m devastated for all my trying to change you, trying to make you
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| The same sorry little animal I’ve been
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| It’s a feat to forgive me
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| Am I meant to understand my own head
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| As I take it from my neck and I begin to deflate it?
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| Am I meant to understand my own heart
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| As it sings my praises all day long and I evade it?
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| Am I meant to understand my own body
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| As I go out walking in an attempt to escape it?
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| Am I meant to understand my own soul
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| As I envy it floating high above me?
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| And I wonder who will tend my own love if not me?
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| If I grow it in the lilies just to ditch it in the weeds
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| And I wonder who would save my own world if not me?
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| In my morning when I bring it into being
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| And I wonder who would save my own world if not me? |