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In
California, south of here,
There lived a little girl,
Her hair was blonde as golden grain,
And it was full of curls.
She lived
a life of poverty,
Upon the desert sands,
The Mojave was her place of birth,
That's where her life began.
She was born
inside a small white house,
That's all they could afford,
Her parents struggled to get by,
But love for her outpoured.
At nine
years old she lost her Mom,
Now she was all alone,
So she was sent to Oregon State,
To find a brand new home.
When she
was grown she headed north,
To Canada she came,
And ever since I met this girl,
I've never been the same.
A
different land and way of life,
From poverty and strife,
I asked that girl to marry me,
And she became my wife.
We'll
never be as rich as kings,
But we are still in love,
From desert sands to Canada,
My angel from above.
by David Ronald Bruce Pekrul
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