| Ninka, like a picture, is rowing with a fraer.
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| Give me, Kerya, a finca, I'll go ahead.
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| I’ll ask: “What kind of kent is this?
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| Let him draw his legs, Ninka, this is a cop, I know.”
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| Mustache thieves, pen pretzel,
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| Breeches staff gray on it,
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| “Sweet, operas, are you looking for? |
| Hey, don't take it!
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| The wind whistles in the muzzle, Ninka, this is a shmon, I know.
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| What did you, infection, "tail" bring us?
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| It would be better if you immediately, f*ck, died.
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| It would be better if you died, because I loved you!
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| But now you have withered in my chest, I know.
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| They flew in from behind and began to stomp.
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| And who will take me out of the kitchi?
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| But time will cuckoo, and for the last time
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| I'll kiss Ninka with a bullet between the eyes.
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| My life is thieves, my evil life,
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| Like a hundred and second "wet" article.
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| Do not halve the term, ah, do not knock off a day ...
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| Worms, booby, blame, but for me it's "Crosses", I know."
|
| Ninka, like a picture, is rowing with a fraer.
|
| Give me, Kerya, a finca, I'll go ahead.
|
| I’ll ask: “What kind of kent is this?
|
| Let him draw his legs, Ninka, this is a cop, I know.” |