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SNOW took us away from the smoke valleys into white mountains, we saw velvet blue cows eating a vermillion grass and they gave us a pink milk.
Snow changes our bones into fog streamers caught by the wind and spelled into many dances.
Six bits for a sniff of snow in the old days bought us bubbles beautiful to forget floating long arm women across sunny autumn hills.
Our bones cry and cry, no let-up, cry their telegrams:
More, more-a yen is on, a long yen and God only knows when it will end.
In the old days six bits got us snow and stopped the yen-now the government says: No, no, when our bones cry their telegrams: More, more.
The blue cows are dying, no more pink milk, no more floating long arm women, the hills are empty-us for the smoke valleys-sneeze and shiver and croak, you dopes-the government says: No, no.

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