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erotic poem

drehen Sie nicht Ihren Kopf
Sitzen in seinem Schalthebel, der Ihren Tee wartet
noch schaukelt ihr Grau Aufsatz über das Meer
auf und an
dort durch das Fenster im alten Haus
kein Opfer sind ich der schlechten Gedanken
neben einem geschlagenen Feld
denken Sie, mein Junge, wenn ich meine Arme um Sie setze
ich bildete ein Versprechen einmal, eins nur

 



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