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Don't ask how we got it. Suffice it to say that after the stolen speech flap of night one of the Republican convention, the only thing the Goppers could do was send Melania back out there tonight to redeem herself. So here's her upcoming speech:

I'm from Eastern Europe, so ollie-ollie-oxen-free, Ollie, and there won't be any more Stan to claim it's another fine mess you've gotten me into

Take Two: A Peek at Melania's Second Night Speech—Larry Wines

Lend me your ears. I traveled the Earth as a fashion model. To infinity and beyond. I was born under a wanderin' star in the final frontier where no one has gone before except The Donald's first two wives. And I learned something. If you don't know where you're going, you might end up someplace else.

Four score and seven years ago, my husband's father had a song written about him by Woody Guthrie. Play it, Sam, because if he can take it, so can I, and I cannot consecrate, I cannot hallow that song. He stuck a feather in his hat and never ate macaroni again because this is America. That land wasn't your land. It was Donald's father's land. And on that side, Woody couldn't say nothing, because his home ain't in this world anymore, and that side was made for you but not me. He was a poor, wayfarin' stranger and a peasant who rented and he had to move when he couldn't pay. And we need to make America great again so all the landlords get paid.

I'm from Eastern Europe, so ollie-ollie-oxen-free, Ollie, and there won't be any more Stan to claim it's another fine mess you've gotten me into because Donald never admits to getting into a mess.

If my husband becomes president we have nothing to fear but fear itself as the light through yonder window breaks. Unless we're Mexicans and we have a dog 'cause it's out, damn Spot. But I'm from Eastern Europe, so ollie-ollie-oxen-free, Ollie, and there won't be any more Stan to claim it's another fine mess you've gotten me into because Donald never admits to getting into a mess. He sings c'est moi and is perfect in every way.

He will succeed where a less fantastic man would fail.
Climb a wall no one else can climb,
Cleave a dragon in record time,
Swim a moat in a coat of heavy iron mail.
No matter the pain, he ought to be unwinceable,
Impossible deeds should be his daily fare.
But where in the world
Is there in the world
A man so extraordinaire?

He answers, "C'est moi! C'est moi," He's forced to admit, "Tis I, I humbly reply." That mortal who these marvels can do, "C'est moi, c'est moi, 'tis I."

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O, can you see to treat people with dignity and respect and those words come from somebody else's speech where your reach exceeds your grasp. Unless your rich husband buys an octopus to grasp and grope his babe daughter and hold on to your children in an octopusus' garden where I'd like to be under the sea. After I go down to the crossroads to get to the yellow brick road to see the wizard. Where I will hire the Tin Man to chop off the lion's head and make a coat out of him for me. Because I have the values to work hard for what I want in this life and we need to have dreams. In America we can be great and have dreams. And dreamer, I believe you can get me through the night. So I'll button up my overcoat and put on my blue suede shoes to ask Mrs. Lincoln if she enjoyed the play because all the world's a stage, the play's the thing, I've got a brand new pair of roller skates, you've got a brand new key, and 23 skidoo.

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So be an authentic American original. Even if you are an immigrant and that's something we can't talk about because immigrants aren't supposed to be able to get over the wall. But all in all you're just another brick in the wall.

So ask not what your husband will buy for you, but who walks the hills in a long black veil and if she has a green card to provide for the common defense but not to collect welfare. You know if you have never heard this, it sounds like nothing you've ever heard, and if you ask me anything I don't know, I'm not going to answer.

About last night, ­you can observe a lot just by watching, and we made too many wrong mistakes. If you don't happen to like it, pass me by. I know it sounds a bit bizarre, but in Camelot, that's how conditions are.

So where am I going, I don't know, when will I get there, I ain't certain, all that I know is I am on my way, and who gives a damn, I'm on my way by the dawn's early light so get me to the church on time.

Because everyone has their cross in life to bear. So I'm grinning and bearing it. Because we are the champions using a Queen song without permission. And somebody must make the non-denominational evangelical creationist fundamentalist lambs washed in the blood make loaves from fishes. To cruz forth like Lazarus to vote for Donald. And it's a dirty job that ruins my nails. But somebody's got to do it. So you hope your song sounds like Stairway to Heaven and that it doesn't go over like a lead balloon. Or like Michelle Obama's Move campaign because those people—sweat.

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Larry Wines