I wish, I wish my baby was born
Sitting on his papa's knee
And you, poor girl, were dead and gone
Green grass growing over thee
I'm not no saint, nor I never shall be
'Til the sweet apple grows from the sour apple tree
I still hope the day will come
When you and I will walk as one
© WARNER-TAMERLANE PUBLISHING CORP; WORDS AMPERSAND MUSIC; VER MUSIC; GRAIN ELEVATOR MUSIC;
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