first afternoon of a day in December, between Mount Morello and Pian de 'Jesters (it must be said? History repeats itself). The center of the city is locked in a grip of iron, machinery unleashed, led by vesciconi swollen, march in single file slowly Trespiano. snowing a white sky lime 'a way to eat! , and here everything stops, like an insect in amber, like a crystal of ice. He stopped the tram and the tram stops, they stop as well as trains, planes and stop in midair, and people sleeping on a chair at Peretola. People defeat, there's little - now - waiting undone at the tram stop, think if you gentlemen would take ATAF even once on a Tramm perhaps understand something, but what crime have they not have the power of the shamans of make it snow and the sun to come, or the power of changing the cars of scrap iron in vesciconi swollen left to rust in a meadow in the suburbs, where once lived the "Greeks" and the chickens. They can only multiply the tram lines, and changing the routes as they wish. They have to fight piacciconi Lamentone and who do not pay the ticket, as well. See a city council young-young old-old promise severe punishment in the case of course the case for case, if anything. See the mayor scrapped a city of scrap iron and craters in the streets to get their hands on falling (touch of color: the tie has sung on the gums).
Lamentations, lamentations only.
Tourists quit, seek, giggling, and taking snapshots for the Lord. V'avvenga anything like this, you who passes here! Here are the ambulances at the trot for torregalli for Careggi, CTO for the gay wankers for Santa Maria Nuova, for Monna Tessa, wherever it happens to happen. Florence extends his hands, there is not any to comfort, surrounded on all sides by vesciconi swollen gall is as unclean thing: this is the city that people called a beauty perfect, the joy of the whole earth? All your enemies open, a hen's ass (due to the snow, wind), the mouth at you, whistle, grind their teeth, they say we have swallowed, so this is the day we expected, we arrived, we see !
O wonder of wonders, it is snowing, and anyone had expected. Shut up, the astrologer caxo!
The poet returns home on foot, and sings: you're
But you, why stay?
Another winter will be back tomorrow
more snow will fall in the consular field
more snow will fall on the cemeteries.
.
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