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love poetry chat

a filha, arte do thou vem morrer
eu despise meus amigos mais do que você
algum queixou-se ao mestre
são idos os três, aquelas irmãs raras
o cheiro do levantou-se assim falso, os espinhos assim verdadeiros
rode-me para baixo pelo prado
teria mesmo seu gracejo
doce e forte
e pão do breaketh mais

 



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