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Whoa-oh, Nanette!
Whoa-oh, Nanette!
They talk to me,
but they don't listen to,
Nanette!
Not a sound, not a sigh,
the world rushes by,
no one thinks of Nanette.
No one sighs for Nanette.
Nobody cries for Nanette.
Through the night, through the day,
people rush on their way,
with never a sigh or regret.
And they are laughing and drinking,
So heedless and unthinking of
Nanette, Nanette, Nanette!
The cowboy rides and roasts his steer,
and rolls and cigarette.
But of all the cowboys, and all the plains,
not one of them thinks of Nanette.
The sailors sail on the bounding main,
of seven seas and yet.
Of all the sailors on schooners and whalers,
not one of them thinks of Nanette.
In China, the Chinkie no thinkie of Nanettie.
In Italy, they go on and on and on
without a thought of Piccolo-Nanetta.
To the East, to the West,
to the North, to the South.
Ireland, Scotland,
England and Whales.
They don't forget me,
or remember me,
cause no one ever met me.
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