There is a place where the sidewalk ends and before the street
begins, and there the grass grows soft and white, and there the sun
burns crimson bright, and there the moon-bird rests from his flight, to
cool in the peppermint wind. Let us leave this place where the smoke
blows black and the dark street winds and bends. Past the pits where the
asphalt flowers grow we shall walk with the walk that is measured and
slow. And watch where the chalk-white arrows go to the place where the
sidewalk ends...
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