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sorry poem

desde que eu senti o sentido da morte
para trás, gire para trás
você pensa, meu menino, quando eu enrolo meus braços em você
assim perdido
antes do saint de bronze solemn
eu amo roubar por algum tempo afastado
veja, desta moeda falsa dele
pôde tê-lo sabido na mola mais adiantada
caras bonitas, tragical

 



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