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| Whose chair this is by now I know.
He's somewhere in the forest though; He will not see me sitting here A place I'm not supposed to go. He really is a little queer
To leave his fire's cozy cheer
And ride out by the frozen lake
The coldest evening of the year.
The chill that makes your footpads ache, The drifts too high to lurk or creep, The icicles that drip and break. His chair is comfy, soft and deep.
But I have got an urge to leap,
And mice to catch before I sleep.
And mice to catch before I sleep.
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