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Words and music by Anne Stott

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The president rode down off his mountain to the west
And he gathered all the farmers, all the bankers, all the vets
And he turned back to show them whence he come and what he done
But that big old mountain had vanished in the sun

The sun was cold that other day not so long ago
When you shouted through the snowflakes it was time to go
You didn't wait for an answer you had a train to catch
You disappeared into a storm and I couldn't call you back

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It's another sort of question he couldn't decide
Whether to abandon all those secrets he did hide
So he set to count them out one by one
But that sun was burning hot so he chose to run

The willow sways one way as the birds fly overhead
The lawn mower tries to stop the grass before it's dead
That hot sun fresh cut smell it fills the air
And you're looking for some distance into which we can stare

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© 2014 Anne Stott. All rights reserved.
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