Where skin runs loose and rampant,
And sun-soaked sky does us grace
With cosmic company to keep us awake.
These hot hours, wringing us dry,
Go withering slow and softly by,
A golden triumph laid before us,
Free to lay eyes on and to take.
No one, not I, my pilgrim friends,
The lovely, lakeside smiling folk,
Every speaker, towel, pretzel, smoke,
Has yet to make a single mistake.
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