I can’t know the song of the southWhen my needle points north.The blue south elegant with lovely lakeEyes in a smiling river on fire look at meApe, the tailor whose fine linens he knowsMakes a man out of safety pinsProud as an indianI figure in future years I’ll be stained by the tearsOf desperate clingingMiracle girls commercially perfectExcel at port authorityShall I run out to meet your hopesOf liquor, tobacco & chocolate? Up on chalkleg mirror mountainSubtle and juicy

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