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A Week Without Cents Whenever I am down
peddling and meddling about the town, I always stop to think and my ideas start to link answers to why change cries “klink.” Whenever I have cents lying and crying in immense, People always ask me why I cannot possibly see to just simply give it away for free. I look back at them praying and saying that their records do not play at the same rpm, And I tell them a sad, sad story One of love and life and glory, And how it ended with me as quarry. Once upon a day in May, Waiting and hating the day that was gay, I took a chance and left my cents in the deepest, darkest cleft And made my friend of sorts bereft A week later I found, stunning and running into the ground, Reality had struck As if I had been hit by a truck And I found out who was the real schmuck. I took back my cents, singing and ringing with sound so intense I hid them away for good, Forgiving the poor fool who would Give them away just because he could.
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