Gritting my teeth, and working up a lugie, I spit my snot into Maurice face
. .
. . The birds in springtime sing their song,
So sweetly and so pure,
But they cannot compare with your sweet words,
Of this you can be sure
Gritting my teeth, and working up a lugie, I spit my snot into Maurice face
. .
. . The birds in springtime sing their song,
So sweetly and so pure,
But they cannot compare with your sweet words,
Of this you can be sure
Gritting my teeth, and working up a lugie, I spit my snot into Maurice face
. .
. . The birds in springtime sing their song,
So sweetly and so pure,
But they cannot compare with your sweet words,
Of this you can be sure
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