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Night Song On the eastern banks of the mighty Mississippi, a Whip-poor-will is whistling courage. Singing and searching, his feathered friends gone and broken heart song. So deja vu his calling cry, a soothing sound for springs first sigh. Whip-poor-will, Whip-poor-will His melancholy song pierces through wooded forests and canyon walls. In an always shadowed ravine by a moss covered stone of the most envious green, singing his eternal song of clarity. shh, Whip-poor-will, Whip-poor-will |
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