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sex poem

ma mère me tortille des roses humides avec la rosée
je me demande parfois s'il est vraiment vrai
exprimons nos passions plus basses
et pendant que nous marchions l'herbe a été faiblement remuée
avec les yeux doux et bruns
ce qui conserve
tout mon amour pour mon bonbon
la agonie d'avoir trop de puissance
je réside à la montagne de table
o juste et stately bonne, dont les yeux

 



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