my kulturBOT 3.0 Poem #1

Over which the art of the
french who murder ever gone,
except a few other,
as the cliffs;
we could not think of tobacco;
fourteen eggs,
from three four Men in the
middle and Provisions on a
high craigs,
and up the Agents,
and sent to ten yards wide
are necessaries.
The Indians,
and level country has late a
great change had taken places
that the Winds and equal to
1478 feet deep.
On leaving findi?

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