| Keep sleeping, I don't want you to see me
|
| Spitting out the fringes of your skirt again,
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| That I found in the bars and I put them in pairs
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| Between the bone and the skin,
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| Dream slowly with my palace,
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| What is the paradise in which I floor even if it is a mojn
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| With your name written in the little corners
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| From his heart to him,
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| When you wake up you will fall with me in the mud,
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| And between concrete you will see me, between moons of tar,
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| Between her stiff nipples,
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| With the blinds you raise, that to the fucking darkness
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| You have plenty of kisses,
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| If you're tired I'll watch you the fairies
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| That they go in a herd with a bastard trot
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| At the top of a hill
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| For once the burial of the imagination,
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| She keeps snoring and from time to time she loosens her leash
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| That you see that I'm still here,
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| Bad breed, always bellowing, wanting to moan,
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| When you wake up with puddles on your feet,
|
| And between concrete you will see me, between moons of tar,
|
| Between her stiff nipples,
|
| With the blinds you raise, that to the fucking darkness
|
| You have plenty of kisses,
|
| I'll be here, waiting for you to step on
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| All the gray mornings and the one-eyed afternoons,
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| Here, standing, complaining of the sidewalk,
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| The hammer for mirrors of not seeing,
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| You will want to know about so many springs
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| That flow into my mouth like hungry lava,
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| I will tell you that I was never a poet,
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| For old wrinkles I'm Jos. |