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Arianne is april morning, that comes rippling through my window. She's the smell of coffee brewing, on a quiet, rainy sunday. She's the purring of a kitten, That has made my neck a pillow for his head. Arianne is silly music that my father used to whistle. She's the new leaf on a fire That I had given up last winter And what writers have to feel like when they suddenly Discover they've been read. Arianne is momma's crystal bread that's nearly finished baking She's a rainbow in a puddle And the happiest birthday She's a'goin out on friday and a'comin back on monday with a tan. Arianne is made of feelings so I milk her of her kisses

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