And while Lennon read a book of Marx, The quartet practiced in the park, And we sang dirges in the dark The day the music died.
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The monkey sat on a pile of stone And he stared at the broken bone in his hand Strains of a Viennese quartet rang out across the land The monkey looked up at the stars And he thought to himself Memory is a stranger History is for fools And he cleaned his hands in a pool of holy writing Turned his back on the garden and set out for the nearest town"