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TOP O' THE MORN: An ode to an ideal island
Theres a magic island waiting
Just off the mainland shore
At the skip of a rock you will arrive,
Or maybe three or four.
The stones on the beach are agate,
The trees are tall and dark.
The west wind blows from the ocean,
And mornings begin with the lark;
Theres a trail that leads to somewhere,
In a land thats shining bright;
From the dawning to the setting sun,
Bathed in a fairy light!
And all the folks who live there,
Are the kind youd expect theyd be,
When you visit this magic island
Offshore in a magic sea.