As I wander about, passing by individuals,
I'm struck with sonder,
With every new face, I cannot help but ponder,
What complexities they go through! ...
Because I am mad about women
I am mad about the hills,'
Said that wild old wicked man
Who travels where God wills.
'Not to die on the straw at home.
Those hands to close these eyes,
That is all I ask, my dear,
From the old man in the skies.
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