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PLAYOFF HUNT! SOUND THE HORN BABY! make the sign beneath the silver of moonlight, festoon your hair with braided willow bark, and wear the ceremonial shoes of your fathers. Come my child, you who are turf wise, you who are heir to my mystery, now make frolic with the bye weeks and danced in the blood of the IR. How we shall laugh to hear it come, the playoff race, the playoff race. Down-down the tracks all will-a-will-lumph it comes and naught but they who stand a gawk in the studium well be seen to wither chants a toll ding atrophe.