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slam poetry

a filha, arte do thou vem morrer
eu tenho que dizer good-night
acima dos prados ricos com milho
quem estará nomeando o vento
eu estou no tempo cinzento frio
dentro de minha măo eu prendo
f4-lo vęem sempre um jacaré
raça elevado-carregada
nos salőes do sono vocę vagueou perto
agora para uma luta viva e cheerful
quando o vento trabalhar de encontro a nós na obscuridade
ao longo dos bancos

 



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