Dreaming of that pot of gold, basking in the afterglow,
but leave it on the cutting room floor
if you don't work some in your cosy home,
another log in the wood burnin' stove.
Oh, it's a slippery slope, the mountains and the snow
Wake up and smell the coffee, hon!
Sleeping like old Colonial Rip Van Winkle,
still in New Amsterdam, not New York.
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