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As beggars feed their vermin. Our sins are stubborn, our repentance is there.
WE GET PAID HANDSOMELY, WE ADMIT.
And we re-enter the Bourbon road cheerfully, believing that the blue town has washed a whole heap.
On the pillow of evil, it is Satan Trismegistus who lulls our enchanted spirit for a long time.
And the rich metal of our will is all vaporized by this learned chemist. It is the bubble devil who holds the threads that move us. At disgusting objects we find appa. Every day towards hell, we descend Dapa. Without art through stinking darkness, like a poor debauchery who kisses and eats the martyred saint of an ancient whore. We steal a clandestine pleasure in the process that we squeeze very hard like an old orange. Tight, swarming, like millions of Dalmatians in our brains rebirth of a people of demons. And when we breathe where? The death in our lungs of a hundred invisible flowers with muffled tears.
If rape, poison or dagger, fire have not yet embroidered with their pleasant design, the banal canvas of our pitiful destinies, it is because Trappes is not there. It is not bold enough. But among the Chactas, the Panthers, the Lilies. The Saints, I, the scorpions and you vultures, the snakes, the monsters, pissing and screaming glatt, grumpy, crawling in the infamous menagerie of our lives.
THEY TURNED OFF THE MORE THE BADDEST, THE MORE.
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