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I am a loner, a dreamer by trade

And I can't remember a dollar I made

A hole in my shoes, a hole in my jeans

A hole in my head where my sense should be

A poet, a prophet, a saint I once knew

They're dead now and I still have nothing to do

So I am writing the words in the wee, early morn

Out of love, out of scorn

A weaver of colours, a woman of life

Took spray from the ocean and made me a wife

But tide soon ran out for us all the shore