I see all four Beatles
Strolling in a damp British field
With their backs to the damp air
Discussing songs they never shared
And as if loathing
With heads hung down
Almost whispering sounds
As their heels leave the ground
And of all the good boys
And of all the worlds toys
That they were still annoyed
Of not giving all their joy
And if by chance this occurred
They knew they had to reserve
That very special bird
Their spiritual nerve
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