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I'm the S-H
I'm the S-H-O-V
I'm the S-H
I'm the S-H-O-V
I'm the S-H
I'm the S-H-O-V
I'm the S-H-O-V-E-L, the Shovel.
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Whence September dusk grows crisper still,
with leaves all crimson conquered,
I yearn to shout,
and dance about,
and stick pickles in my honker...
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