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The Little Flower Girl
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Down at the church the flower girl sits. Legs innocent apart.
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I'll make the picture-puzzle fit to start your heart.
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Painted sister stopped beside. A word upon her saintly lip.
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Perhaps admonishing the child inside the open slip.
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Well, I don't know where she might go when she runs home at night.
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It's for the best: I wouldn't rest when I turned out the light.
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No little flower girl singing in my troubled dream --
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just an old man's model in a pose from a magazine.
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I have touched that face a dozen times before. And I have let my pencil run.
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Laid down washes on a foreign shore, under a hot and foreign sun.
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My best sable brushes drift the soft inside of her arm.
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Her chin I tilt, her breasts I lift. I mean no harm.
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I close the door. She is no more until the next appointed hour.
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Northeastern light, push back the night: painted promises in store.
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No little flower girl singing in my troubled dream --
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just an old man's model in a pose from a magazine.
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Down at the church my flower girl sits. Legs innocent apart.
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I'll make the picture-puzzle fit to start your heart.
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My golden sable brushes drift the soft inside of her arm.
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Her chin I tilt, her breasts I lift. I mean no harm.
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I mean no harm. I mean .....
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The Little Flower Girl
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Jethro Tull |