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type of poem

vieux vin à boire
dans leurs regimentals loqueteux
il est allé
ceux sur le supérieur indiquent qu'elles vous connaissent, la terre -- elles sont des menteurs
à l'aube, il a dit
l'aube était vert pomme
par de la large le sein faisant mal terre
y a il quiconque là
le corps peut confiner
il y a une heure du repos paisible
ma mère me tortille des roses humides avec la rosée

 



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