Upon the morrow, I must drive Up north upon I-Sixty-Five Not to Montgomery or Atlanta But all the way to Indiana And there I will spend several days Among the folk of Amish ways Those pedalers of way-cool bicycles And drivers of horse-drawn vehicles 'Tis Rapparee's old stomping ground And I shall search 'til I have found His bootprints, old and faint and blurred Smashed in a petrified horse turd
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