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funny poem

gebildet vom loveliness alleine
wenn der rote Slayer denken, slays er
es gibt keine Menge, gleichwohl aufgepaßt und geneigt
es gab drei in der Wiese durch den Bach
wir brechen das Glas dessen sacred Wein
eine Feder des Stahls
eine Meile nach
ich stand
vor drei Jahren heute
entlang einem River-side

 



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