Whence the morn, sang a tune to a painted pony ride...

This morn,
Have you heard,
How calls for a painted pony ride?
As if the morn whispers true
A ride to the land of happy
Where flowers bloom with moist dew...

This morn,
Have you heard,
How calls for a spinning wheel ride?
As if we get sink into the tide
And we sink into each other's eyes...

This morn,
Calls us out...
Have that heard?
As if we take to the road
Where we sing happy by a rivery side...

Just like that a wordsmith once did
By the sides of lake district...
Finding blossoms, dewy misty smoke,
Finding a transcend to the vast glory as evoked...
Finding how in dins of the city,
Sage like country descending pretty...

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