He strolls right by the sycamore river
Where winter leaves do take to gently caressing thee
Turmoil tends to taking to this altogether brisk and settled breeze on out of here, so suddenly appeases his every single momentary thing
He will soon begin to smile for the whole lot of them a soothing mile both high aside sizably wide
And then the pen and paper took to fancy flight – write ’til all is right with this peculiar world of ours, Roddy boy

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