| Dinner with Ben Franklin on Friday night
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| The invitation read
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| Of course I wrote and thanked him
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| I wouldn’t miss it for the world I said
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| His table is so well kept
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| He plays the glass harmonica
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| And talks of wind and kites
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| The habits of the court of France
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| And other strange delights
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| Of course I’ve heard it all before
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| On other wintry nights
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| And yet there is no better wine or conversation
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| The English call it claret
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| And clear and red it sits inside my glass
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| Sent to us from Paris
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| A greater kindness never came to pass
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| We’ll drink his health, with the last
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| He plays the glass harmonica
|
| And talks of wind and kites
|
| Of almanacs and specacles
|
| And other strange delights
|
| Of course I’ve heard it all before
|
| On other wintry nights
|
| And yet there is no better wine or conversation
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| Time goes by in stories
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| Wine goes by, dark and young
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| When it comes my turn here
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| I’ll be telling one with a purple tongue
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| The night grows philosophic
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| I miss a word or two, it must be said
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| As I hear them talking
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| I sink a little keeping in my chair
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| Thanking the fates that brought me here
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| He plays the glass harmonica
|
| And talks of wind and kites
|
| Of lightening and odometers
|
| And other strange delights
|
| Of course I’ve heard it all before
|
| On other wintry nights
|
| And yet there is no better wine or conversation |