When the chromium buds of America bloom
and they turn the springtime on,
smooth-cast youth fill the juke box room
and hunt the phonograph fawn.
Corduroy heroes from a drug store booth,
maids from a cement lawn
shoot their arrow of chipped-flint youth
and hunt the phonograph fawn.
Tinsel laurel peeps over their ears
with the phonograph springtime on;
even in these, the cast iron years,
they hunt the phonograph fawn.
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