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grandmother poem

robuste, humble-abeille de somnoler
pourquoi sont les choses qui n'ont aucune mort
j'ai eu une crainte dans ma vie
je me suis tenu pręt le tissu pour rideaux ouvert
le roulement triste du tambour insonorisé a le battement
quelle chance spiteful vole des unawares
il n'y a aucune bande, toutefois observé et tendu
gros mâles noirs dans une salle de vin-baril
voici se trouver une dame la plus belle

 



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