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thanksgiving poem

was es die gesagten Maschinen war
sie limps mit dem Anhalten des schmerzlichen Schrittes
warum Sie immer der dort shivering Standplatz tun Sie
behold ich, in meinem chiffon, in Gaze und in Filterstreifen
in den mournful Zahlen
herauf von die Wiesen reich mit Mais
ich bin eine Frau

 



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