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baby poem

come le aquile sul high alto
la sua faccia è giusta e liscia e fine
cammino giù i percorsi del giardino
ho visto la prima pera
pensieri tramite la mia testa
le verità terribili questi sono
molto bene, voi liberali
non rimanga nient'altro
e pane del breaketh non di più
la mia anima è un campo arato scuro

 



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