A Singe
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Today I burned my hand:
Your mouth was too hot.
On the wrist - a red scar,
It cries, and pains, and hurts.
And in the middle of it -
A trace is from the pan,
Your mouth was too hot
Enticed, its ring was loud.
The smell came suddenly,
The schnitzel slightly burned.
I ran and - got a singe!
One shouldn't rage and brawl.
Bu şiiri puanla
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