[Intro]
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Well, I'll sing you the story of a sorrowful lad,
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He had everything he wanted, didn't want what he had.
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He had wealth and pelf and fame and name and all of that noise,
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but he didn't have none of those simple joys.
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His life seemed purposeless and flat.
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Aren't you glad you dont feel like that?
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So he ran from all the deeds he'd done,
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he ran from things he'd just begun.
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He ran from himself, which was mighty far to run.
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Out into the country where he played as a boy.
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For he knew he had to find him some simple joy.
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He wanted someplace warm and green.
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We all could use a change of scene.
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Sweet summer evenings, hot wine and bread.
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Sharing your supper, sharing your bed.
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Simple joys have a simple voice. It says: Why not go ahead?
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Wouldn't you rather be a left handed flea,
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or a crab on a slab at the bottom of the sea
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than a man who never learns how to be free.
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Not 'til he's cold and dead.
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Wouldn't you rather be a left handed flea,
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or a crab on a slab at the bottom of the sea
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than a man who never learns how to be free.
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Not 'till the day he dies?
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Sweet summer evenings, sapphire skies.
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Feasting your belly, feasting your eyes.
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Simple joys have a simple voice.
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It says time is living's prize.
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And wouldn't you rather be a left handed flea,
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or a crab on a slab at the bottom of the sea,
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a newt on the root of a banyan tree,
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or a fig on a twig in Galilee,
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than a man who never learns how to be free.
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Not till the day he, not till the day he,
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not till the day, not till the day he
Dies!
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