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Shall I compare thee to a marching band?
Thou art more hard working and competitive.
Rough winds do shake the flags right out of your hand,
And summer’s heat hath all so repetitive.
Sometime too hot the eye of the shiniest horn,
And often her flute is so out of ordinary.
And by Chaney hand’s she is torn,
By the love of music she is extraordinary.
But thy eternal summer shall not throw away,
Nor lose the benefit of a summers day.
Nor shall forget the drill, You would like to run away,
When it’s time for the final performance you will want a delay.
So long as marching season fades away,
So long until next season comes our way.

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