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eu estou cantando-lhe
quando os mar-ventos perfuraram nossos solitudes
behold mim, em meus chiffon, gauze e ouropel
de nossos lugares escondidos
frequentemente eu penso da cidade bonita
deixe um sustento da alegria você
conseqüentemente eu não posso
e enquanto nós andamos a grama foi agitada fraca
esta bacia de prata antiga de meus
têm você não ouvido
o pitiful pequeno, desgastado, caras rir

 



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