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christmas poem

uma névoa estava dirigindo para baixo
lá pela janela na casa velha
o ar é como uma borboleta
o pitiful pequeno, desgastado, caras rir
e como poderia você sonho da reunião
os dias hypocritic
eu sou velho e cego
para trás, gire para trás
frequentemente eu penso da cidade bonita

 



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