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La la la la |
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La la la la |
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Nowadays we often gaze |
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On women over fifty |
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Without the slightest trace |
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Of wrinkles on their face |
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Doctors go and take their dough |
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To make them young and nifty |
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But Doctors I defy |
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To tell me just why |
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No matter how young a prune may be |
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It's always full of wrinkles |
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We may get them on our face |
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Prunes get 'em every place |
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Prohibition worries us |
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But prunes don't sit and brood |
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For no matter how young a prune may be |
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It's always getting stewed |
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|
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In the kingdom of the fruits |
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The prune is snubbed by others |
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And they are not allowed |
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To mingle with the crowd |
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Though they're never on display |
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With all their highbrow brothers |
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They never seem to mind |
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To this fact they're resigned |
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That no matter how young a prune may be |
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It's always full of wrinkles |
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Beauty treatments always fail |
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They've tried all to no avail |
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Other fruits are envious |
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Because they know real well |
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That no matter how young a prune may be |
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Hot water makes 'em swell |
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|
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Baby prunes look like their dad |
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But not wrinkled quite as bad |
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Every day in every way |
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The world is getting better |
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We've even learned to fly |
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As days go passing by |
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But how about the poor old prune |
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His life is only wetter |
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No wonder he can't win |
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In the awful stew he's in |
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No matter how young a prune may be |
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He's always full of wrinkles |
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We may get them on our face |
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Prunes get 'em every place |
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Nothing ever worries them |
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Their life's an open book |
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But no matter how young a prune may be |
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It has a worried look |
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|
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Prunes act very kind they say |
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When sickly people moan |
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But no matter how young a prune may be |
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It has a heart of stone |
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