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Flowers

You have your very own number
They dress your cage in its nature
Once you roared now you just grunt lame
Pace around pathetic pound games
want to get out won’t miss you sensaround
To carry your own dead to swing your tyre tricks
want to get out in here you’re bred dead quick
For the outside
The small black flowers that grow in the sky

Copyright Fabio Riberto P. IVA 02548560990

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