.Die kalte Luft vor der Kneipe tut weh
Seine Augen brennen im Wind
Und seine Finger berühren den Mund
Wo das Blut ganz langsam gerinnt
Noch immer ist seine Wut nicht verraucht
Doch er geht nicht wieder hinein
Er spuckt aus und er spürt wie so oft
Was es heiÃt ges.
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