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funny poem

il aurait même sa plaisanterie
basculé dans le berceau du profond
aimez-moi enfin, ou si vous pas
jusqu'à sa fenêtre de chambre
a arqué l'inondation
pourquoi sont les choses qui n'ont aucune mort
je ne brûle aucun encens
bougies se renversant en longueur dans des bidons de tomate
orage
l'air est comme un papillon
juste en tant que mes doigts sur ces clefs
le mystère le plus foncé et le plus étrange
je réside à la montagne de table

 



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