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Scarecrow: Come along, Dorothy. You don't want any of *those* apples. Apple Tree: Are you hinting my apples aren't what they ought to be?
Scarecrow: Oh, no. It's just that she doesn't like little green worms!
May the road rise to meet you, May the wind be always at your back,
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
The rains fall soft upon your fields and,
Until we meet again, May God hold you in the palm of His hand.
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