TOP O' THE MORN: An ode to an ideal island

There’s 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;

There’s a trail that leads to somewhere,

In a land that’s shining bright;

From the dawning to the setting sun,

Bathed in a fairy light!

And all the folks who live there,

Are the kind you’d expect they’d be,

When you visit this magic island

Offshore in a magic sea.

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