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On the Trail of Love |
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CONFIDENTIAL
When her arms drift 'round my neck,
An' her head's agin my breast, Seems to me the whole creation
Sort o' faints or takes a rest. When she camps upon my knee,
An' her cheek's agin my face, Hain't no round-up boss of glory
But what's wishin' fer my place. Speakin' private, when she kisses,
With a little, catchy breath, I jes' die—an' blamed glad of it—
One sweet, temporary death. |
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