All I want is to be the happy-go-lucky type
But somehow it creeps inside me and makes me want to run away from everything
Why am I like this?
Why can't I be like what I dream to be? ...
Browning, old fellow,
Your leaves grow yellow,
Beginning to mellow
As seasons pass.
Your cover is wrinkled,
And stained and sprinkled,
And warped and crinkled
From sleep on the grass.
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