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halloween poem

basso! 'tis un la notte di gala
il vecchio ovest, il vecchio tempo
una tempesta sta guidando sulla marea
sopra il fiume, sulla collina
città che non è una città
in pieno delle rotture
sto cantando voi
in settembre
un poet, prendente il freno fuori della sua linguetta
vecchio vino da bere
behold me, in miei chiffon, garza e canutiglia

 



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