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But sometimes when I get my horns in a thing—
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thin limbs smocked in white. A riderless horse has appeared
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green, day smacks its lips, they are back, the inventors, they are going to do it
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where all gold starts
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be leaving early. It was my duty to stay awake
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And suddenly
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And for you who move away, pensively,
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placed on the edge of that day
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to the labyrinth of yellow cheeses,
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Praise the mist, the warrior name