The
Bolshevik Tartans brought by ferocious
winds from
Galicia are the placenta
of the
Rumanian and he wears it like the bonnet
of a
madman released from prison on bail,
with
wrinkled, green, sickly skin and he’s
sufficient
for a cruel Calvary when he wants
to change
because the country is small
the
race dubious. Somewhere through the inmost
depths
of the glands of a Rumanian prime
minister
they secreted the idea that no matter
how
wicked an insignificant Rumanian can be
he can be
transfigured ‒ it’s very useful to escape
from
the skin of Rumanian, he drank a potion
and
woke up reborn with the feeling that he’s
a child
born out of wedlock a damned bastard,
a ghost
that he was ‒ a big hairy caterpillar
with
more rows of numberless claspers
and at
night he began to climb the right
leg of
the general for protection and guard
so that
he find out the science how
to
become a butterfly, a haughty, dignified
and
wise butterfly. Nonetheless round about
midnight
when he got to the bollocks
of the
general his dizziness faded away
and he
saw himself limpidly as a hot
bitch he
shed tears over a caterpillar
invaded
by parasites nonetheless the hairy
caterpillar
was yelling ‒ it was he the scared Rumanian.
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