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grandma poem

dans leurs regimentals loqueteux
fleurs des bébés
sommeil, frère gris de la mort
pensées par ma tête
dans le port de New York
je suis allé à travers les rues
les jours mélancoliques sont venus
je ne puis pas toujours sentir son greatness
short et doux, et nous sommes arrivés à la fin de lui

 



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