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thanksgiving poetry

en números mournful
el sol está para arriba
no se aflija que encima
en sus regimentals desiguales
la mujer faltó mucho, cómo usted llama a mí, llamada a mí
he oído que cierta princesa
antes del santo de bronce solemne
él vino tomarme por la mano
cuando miraba en sus ojos
haga a muchachos y las muchachas todavía van
y como caminamos la hierba fue revuelta débilmente
le hizo oyen hablar siempre
arriba y abajo de él va


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