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[A young woman sat by the campfire, surrounded by wagons. Surprisingly impeccably dressed--simple, modest, yet functional--for one who had spent all day traveling. Her eyes were slightly glossy as she stared into the flames.]
[After a time, she begins to sing. (Because, of course, what could be more appropriate in the moment than an impromptu musical number?) A soft melody that drifts into the air, echoing amongst the night sky for any close by to hear:]
[After a time, she begins to sing. (Because, of course, what could be more appropriate in the moment than an impromptu musical number?) A soft melody that drifts into the air, echoing amongst the night sky for any close by to hear:]
Do you wanna die of typhoid?
Because it's here to stay
We've got the wagons all hitched up
But never stop to wash a cup
Until our health, it fades away
We used to be so healthy
And now we're not
I wish you would tell me why
Do you wanna die of typhoid
It doesn't have to be of typhoid....
Because it's here to stay
We've got the wagons all hitched up
But never stop to wash a cup
Until our health, it fades away
We used to be so healthy
And now we're not
I wish you would tell me why
Do you wanna die of typhoid
It doesn't have to be of typhoid....