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Oh little mushrooms with brown faces underneath And bare white heads, You think of summer and you think of song . . . Why don't you think of me In my little white bed In the night? You think only of your singsong and your dances, Following your leader round and round, You think only of the grass And the green apples and leaves Dropping out of the blue . . . Why don't you think of me asleep In my little white bed? The wind thinks of me, Brown-white dancers! You forget, But the wind remembers. |