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thanksgiving poem

fette schwarze Dollars in einem Wein-Faßraum
lieben Sie mich schließlich oder, wenn Sie nicht werden
ich fülle diese Schale
warum so traurig mein reizendes?
sie fragen mich, wo ich gewesen bin
in den Hallen des Schlafes wandered Sie vorbei
ich muß sagen gute Nacht
die alten Songs

 



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