Of the joy of natural beauty,
Of happy childhood memories,
A tenderly grown rose bush,
If it can’t serve his own fetid pleasure,
Be a hole he can penetrate,
it needs to be a dead concrete block.
Of the joy of natural beauty,
Of happy childhood memories,
A tenderly grown rose bush,
If it can’t serve his own fetid pleasure,
Be a hole he can penetrate,
it needs to be a dead concrete block.
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