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birthday poem

comme un homme nu je vont
il était un jeune oysterman grand
pourquoi sont les choses qui n'ont aucune mort
j'ai vu la premičre poire
je descends les chemins de jardin
la pluie plus de, et l'air brillant
quand la nuit dérive le long des rues de la ville
la neige chuchote au sujet de moi
il parle pas bien

 



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