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grandmother poem

ich sah die erste Birne
wenn es
irgendwo las ich eine merkwĂĽrdige, alte, rostige Geschichte
wenig Park, den ich durch fĂĽhre
wie das Glätten fällt
drehen Sie nicht Ihren Kopf
behold ich, in meinem chiffon, in Gaze und in Filterstreifen

 



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