| Ah many a man has built his own temple
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| Shown to convey his grace and skill
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| Having red domes, pillars and arches
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| All fashioned to fit his will
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| When over men observe it’s beauty
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| They stand and see and sigh and say
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| Great is your work, oh yes, oh builder
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| Your fame shall never fade away
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| Those who do not know and do not know
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| That they do not know, are foolish, avoid them
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| Then there is woman, a builder of nations
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| Laden with labour, love and care
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| They place each pillar with pride and patience
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| Pops every plan she’ll pose to a prayer
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| Those who do not know that know
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| That they do not know, are children, a dark girl
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| But few men will praise her cause and omen
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| Some may not even understand
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| Most of the struggle borne by woman
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| Is seldomly held in the eyes of man
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| Those who know and do not know
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| That they know, they’re asleep, awake them
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| So be the temples men have cherished
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| Crumbled in ruins to rot and rust
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| No lies each pillar and arch to perish
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| Doomed to decay and rot to dust
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| Oh but those who know and know that they know
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| Are of wisdom, appreciate them
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| Oh but the temples created in woman
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| Never have failed in statue and goal
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| Deep in her heart she fills her temple
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| In her own child her mortal soul |