their own purposes,
strive to remain . . .
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Surprised by joy—impatient as the Wind
I turned to share the transport—Oh! with whom
But Thee, long buried in the silent Tomb, . . .
Sweet sweet sweet sweet sweet tea.
Sweet sweet sweet sweet sweet tea. . . .
Facing the wind of the avenues
one spring evening in New York,
I wore under my thin jacket . . .
Just when it has seemed I couldn’t bear
one more friend
waking with a tumor, one more maniac . . .
Like the foghorn that’s all lung,
the wind chime that’s all percussion,
like the wind itself, that’s merely air . . .