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Day after day alone on the hill,
The man with the foolish grin is keeping perfectly still, But nobody wants to know him, They can see that he's just a fool, And he never gives an answer, But the fool on the hill Sees the sun going down, And the eyes in his head, See the world spinning around. Well on his way his head in a cloud, The man of a thousand voices talking percetly loud But nobody ever hears him, Or the sound he appears to make, And he never seems to notice, But the fool on the hill . . . Nobody seems to like him They can tell what he wants to do. And he never shows his feelings, But the fool on the hill . . . |
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Are you goin' to Scarborough Fair? Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme Remember me to one who lives there, she once was a true love of mine Tell her to make me a cambric shirt, parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme Without no seams nor needlework, then she'll be a true love of mine Tell her to find me an acre of land, parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme Between the salt water and the sea strand, then she'll be a true love of mine Tell her to reap it in a sickle of leather, parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme And to gather it all in a bunch of heather, then she'll be a true love of mine Are you goin' to Scarborough Fair? Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme Remember me to one who lives there, she once was a true love of mine |
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