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The Tourist
by
Walter Martin
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Now the boy is old And the world weighs on his shoulders One by one the tall ships come And sail us slow into that sinking sun Oh but I've seen the pretty scenes They put in books and magazines The pictures on my wall they say it all They tell the tales I can't recall And these photographs of tourist traps Well, they are alas all that I'll leave behind But hell, that's fine And now I find myself going through those books upon my shelf And flipping through this book of shots I took I saw the world, here, have a look
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