.Il pleut des cordes, c'est Ãse pendre
C'est Ãse tordre et Ãtout rendre
Aux ingénues qui l'air hagard
Prêtent leurs culs aux balançoires
Que font tanguer un court instant
Au gré des vents et des courants
Les vieux cromornes et leurs malaises
Regagnent leur place au.
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