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T art E

3

When we're dead it means we're dead
When we don't laugh anymore it means we don't live anymore
When I'll have cut the string
Put me in a trashcan
Let me rot for a month
And from there throw me to the cat
May he decline my spleen and my liver
But choose the right time so that he eats my heart
And that I stay with you
On your shoulders and you laps
May I be since we have to exist
The cat from the artists' café

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