who knows if the moon's
a balloon,coming out of a keen city
in the sky--filled with pretty people
(and if you and i should
�
get into it,if they
should take me and take you into their balloon
why then
we'd go up higher with all the pretty people
�
than houses and steeples and clouds
go sailing
away and away sailing into a keen
city which nobody's ever visited,where
�
always
it's
Spring) and everyone's
in love and flowers pick themselves.
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