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What are you, damsel, sad,
Molcha prismirela,
Runaround forgetting, one
In the corner sat?
"Birthday Girl, friends,
There is nothing to amuse.
I thought in the ballad
Happiness is our praise.
But our Zhukovsky fell asleep,
Gnedich zagovelsya,
Pushkin demon escaped,
Krylov stuffed ".
Here in the living room table is set -
sit down quickly,
In a glass foam boils
And ballads shall cope;
So she coped -
Do we need poets?—
Wineglass dried to bottom,
let us say: many years
he, which friends
Age of love is too late!
Many years we also,
Only it is not Rozno.

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