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When I first met her,
I wondered if angels flew this low,
To her heart I would fetter,
Mine tied in a bow.
How she adores Austria,
But loathes the Krampus,
She is sweeter than Sangria,
And in her heart I do trust.
I long for days with her there,
When so far away,
To rub her with mustache hair,
And zerberts all day. |
