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poetry poem

ich liebe, eine Weile weg zu stehlen
vor dem ernsten Bronzeheiligen
wie ein blanker Mann ich gehen
wenn Nacht entlang den StraĂźen der Stadt treibt
fette schwarze Dollars in einem Wein-FaĂźraum
irgendwo las ich eine merkwĂĽrdige, alte, rostige Geschichte

 



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