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retirement poem

la hija, arte del thou viene morir
todos dentro y todos sin mĂ­
bucks negros gordos en un cuarto del vino-barril
muy bien, usted liberales
debajo de mi ventana en una calle de la ciudad
dos filas de coles
tormenta
en el amanecer, él dijo
hay aumentos para todas nuestras pérdidas

 



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