.Dans la cour il n'y a plus rien
Plus ces balles un peu molles
Qu'on ?crasait sur des murs mitoyens
A des grands-m?res presque mortes
Criant ? qui voulait l'entendre
Fourr?es dans de mauvais destins
Que la vie que l'on tient par la main
?a d?borde... sans avoir dig?r? le f.
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