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| a portuguese man |
| who loves a man |
| is neither a man |
| nor portuguese |
| for he has been |
| too long away |
| that is what they say |
| yet they embrace pessoa |
| and shout he was their best |
| and erect a statue for him |
| on the busiest street |
| on the busiest hill |
| in lisbon, and when asked |
| why did sá-carneiro |
| succumb to strychnine |
| by his own hand |
| all they can offer is |
| he was an artist |
| haunted by his own soul |
| besides he lived in france |
| we are complex creatures |
| catholic miracles |
| pave our path |
| and we believe enough |
| to walk on our knees |
| and blame ourselves |
| when our beloved lady |
| of fatima passes us by |
| and we believe enough |
| in miracles like blood |
| raining from the sky |
| yet a portuguese man |
| who loves a man |
| is neither a man |
| nor portuguese |
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