| By all accounts, accounts it’s true
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| Not that it matters much, much to the Blue
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| To the Blue, to the Blue
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| Heather Burns went, went to the field
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| To gather robin’s eggs, eggs for her meal
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| For her meal, for her meal
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| Walking, she thought about
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| A coward, years ago
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| «Saint Jude, when will I learn?»
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| A snake side-winded
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| Across her broken path
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| But Heather knew better and thought
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| «What is done is done, what’s done is done»
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| By all accounts, accounts it’s fine
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| «One egg for Saint Jude, one egg is mine
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| One is mine, one is mine»
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| She saw a nest, nest in an elm
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| Not-so high, yet another realm
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| Another realm, another realm
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| Reaching up, she felt
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| Two eggs with her fingers
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| And lightly picked them out
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| And lowering, one fell down
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| «one for Jude!», the shake said
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| But heather knew better and thought:
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| «What is done is done, what’s done is done»
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| «Can't we raise the Dead anew?
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| Call me Robin Egg Blue»
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| By all accounts, accounts it’s through
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| Not that it matters much to Robin Egg Blue
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| Robin Egg Blue, Robin Egg Blue
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| The snake followed her home
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| Along the broken path
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| The field needed to be burned
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| Inside, she set the egg down
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| «Should I not have been hungry?»
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| But Heather knew better and thought:
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| «What is done is done, what’s done is done» |