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pastor appreciation poem

le ciel
un poèt, ayant pris le frein outre de sa langue
je vais ma manière complacently
aimez-moi enfin, ou si vous pas
de la chanson et du rêve pour jamais allé
ma mère me tortille des roses humides avec la rosée
il est vrai que vous disiez que les dieux sont plus d'utilisation à vous que des fées

 



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