In the half-tone light of a young morning
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she sighs and shifts on the pillow.
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And across her face dancing, the first shadows fly
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to kiss the Pussy Willow.
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In her fairy-tale world she's a lost soul singing
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in a sad voice nobody hears.
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She waits in her castle of make-believing
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for her white knight to appear.
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Pusy Willow --- down fur-lined avenue
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brushing the sleep from her young woman eyes.
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Runs for the train --- see, eight o'clock's coming
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cutting dreams down to size again.
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Pussy Willow --- down fur-lined avenue
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brushing the sleep from her young woman eyes.
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Runs from the train. Hear her typewriter humming
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cutting dreams down to size again.
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She longs for the East and a pale dress flowing
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an apartment in old Mayfair.
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Or to fish the Spey, spinning the first run of Spring
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or to die for a cause somewhere.
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Pussy Willow --- down fur-lined avenue
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brushing the sleep from her young woman eyes.
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Runs from the train. Hear her typewriter humming
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cutting dreams down to size again.
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Pussy Willow
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Jethro Tull |