It nods and curtseys and recovers
The nettle nods, the wind blows over,
When the wind blows above,
The nettle on the graves of lovers
That hanged themselves for love.
The man, he does not move,
The lover of the grave, the lover
That hanged himself for love.
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Page last updated: 11 November 1998 ©1998-1999, Richard J. Yanco |