E 'fall and the sky is still blue even though the valley of the Po, which throws up all that crap greyness of mist and varied that you can cut, tap and everything. E 'and blue sky at the end so are me, why do you want hot or because I'm wearing the blazer, black as pitch, gives me enough. Just quell'abbastanza which is neither good nor bad. E 'enough. Day of sharp colors, red bike, blue cars, moods blacks, vibrant colors for teenagers' backpacks that come from above. We step in half like Moses and I do not slam a cock of their joy after the Cold War because me and my bike fly giù da viale allegri che sembriamo due magrebini in fuga dalla polizia, il vento in faccia che sembra prendermi a sberle per tutte le stronzate che ho fatto, l’asfalto che mi segue anche lui a rotta di collo e poi bum, ferma lì, cazzo di freni che non funzionano, il semaforo è rosso e ci sì ferma ad aspettare il via. Puzza di motori diesel vecchi come me prodotti dai crucchi, quelli dell’ovest, quelli senza baffi e con i bei vestiti made in occidente, quelli che ascoltavano bowie e tutto il resto della ciurma, kraftwerk compresi. Puzza di vecchie e di naftalina, che poi sono un pò la stessa cosa, vecchi con le pillole nelle tasche dei trench che vorrei averli io dei trench così da girarci in centro e andare a fare l’aperitivo the mess, stuff all that "radical chic" look at me and say 'look at that guy in the trench that Madonna will be going to London to take toh "and instead, I still laugh," I stole from an old, shithead, spritz you finish that then you go in the ass. " Robe crazy traffic lights, if you think about that stuff as you go you are also shivering. The man has a green, he walks toward my direction and go down the way of Villon and the rich people, the bourgeoisie of Reggio Emilia, good people, people who always vote left, preferably in the center, better Catholic, preferably rich and if it's a profession at the club to boast of channels. There is also the train today, bars are down and it seems almost time to go to sleep, they are so slow, eyelids of modern civilization, gears turning mushy and inertia that they broke the balls to stay in there to rot and to wait for the next provincial cyan cyan reggio reggio . Bella this train story, really beautiful, and watch it now seems that the prince emanuele in Sanremo, train rotten if you see it you do not give a penny to that one, but where you want to go that is fine if you get to cavriago. And stopped by Lenin that he gives you advice. Always.
And then when you feel the smell of corpse makes you want to become a vegetarian and all menate there for macrobiotic alternative to, people to be pulped together before swine we eat here in Emilia kg, the pigs that you see out here and they all seem happy to do their honest work, eat and die. Stuff we do that then they just laugh, laugh because they watch them all happy there, really. Lora will be for the sex life. It stinks of corpses, I pull up the hill from the keffiyeh bought in Pakistan with a mustache, this keffiyeh pure stuff, the stuff of freedom fighter of the Palestinian people, stuff you can not buy me the H & even at Benetton.
I put the path to throttle, when someone on the other side, oh okay, now we are out of there, away from the old balls that here are the arctic from sheffield who are riding with me, But I'll still take you home I'll still take you home, you go by subway, slalom between the syringes to those who were twenty years ago, and so on Crostolo. Look there, on the right, a small hill above the urge to lie down and stop thinking about anything, from sunbathing on the hill, stay there by the hand to count the chemtrails all fucking day. Too bad it under the ring road, just below, always afraid that I've got some chips come down from there, or what I know, even a car. A machine head, sbam, I become like Donnie Darko, parallel universes and all those things, there except maybe the ass to everyone and then .. okay. It should be higher, however, this fucking bridge. Climb, climb that I look around the marshes of '98, I go up on the pedals, fake tales of san francisco echo through the room, strips flying away, away, I go to the pink jersey, I'm not going to stop anyone, the last corner, the last few yards, the last meters AROUND AND 'ITS, the ride is' HIS. People comes to hand, stops me, hugs me, pats on the back, great brand, and I with great sadness in my heart that I just hope to die as soon as possible because I can not do more here in this merdaio.
The lunatics are all in today, lunch from superfine broom, you eat the noodles with the sauce, I the urge to stop after a victory, that of a rather nice gpm Crostolo, to stay dry. Wine sauce and noodles. Latest curves, the last curve and then home, a few other good afternoon but we are there we get, I slam down the door and destination, I slam down the gate and arrival. Stop there, there is to go beyond, it is to pass the school occupied Maruga, stuff that the priest does not want and even the beautiful people of Cavazzoli, these rats stink here, do not make a cock from morning to night these proceedings. From tot to put away the cost. Pass with confidence, leaving the Beatles, the four boys who went to fight in the end no one knows why, or history of money was Yoko Ono. I hate it that there is, I'm fucking radical chic of you who have ruined John. The bike goes, a guy stops fucking face is, I'm so ugly? Time to shave, time to change shoes bum me a headache dog, stuff that breaks your head, fuck with people screaming but the iPod is still, thanks steve, steve, thanks, jai jai garu garu deva deva om fuck you asshole screams, jai garu deva oom, nothing's gonna change my world, nothing's gonna change my world Nothing's gonna change my world.
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