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herauf von die Wiesen reich mit Mais
lassen Sie uns Pity die, denen besser seien Sie weg von, als wir sind
warum die Sachen sind, die keinen Tod haben
innerhalb meiner Hand halte ich
wenn Freiheit von ihrer Gebirgshöhe
Sie sind mein Begleiter
auf und an
ich liebte eine Frau
schwach-weak-winged Song
dort durch das Fenster im alten Haus

 



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