Ash-coloured skies. The star of the dog
blew weird sulphurous smoke
it blackened all the gipsies badly
but it made the bagel benders scratch
their anus and their nostrils ‒, a devil
snuffed it, the chief of a clan of Bolsheviks
bandits, treacherous voices intersect
and stretch, fragments of gipsy wailings.
They organize red national funerals,
the mouth of the dead man, the serial killer
requests seigniorial concerts, remnants
of Bolshevistic hymns. The dick-headed
populace wails that he was an arm
as strong as a sea arm, falling as if
from the heights of the sky he destroys
this gypsy comedy. The star of the dog
will bark louder and gets him out
in front on our forehead a louse as large
as crow’s dung a bit ephemeral.
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