in a bag without air,
reserves the onion its fragrance.
There, they cook their own juice,
tap water would take 'her only strength.
The onion is a shell animal,
a vain vegetables, like us.
Why is it only because we taste so bland?
Should we perhaps put in a vacuum bag?
My friends are young as I
romp and mostly without me. die
While their inner shells,
they may share greater.
Then they spin threads from which hang hook
and learn again to know new people.
And because this all come in the way of creating a network -
Sun crawls along slimy threads of the work of art now.
Here is the Merciless for us people of this great time:
In the Flood loses any part of his own mind.
Is not that the world is indeed in the earth,
the worm in the cloud but is replaced by a professor?
Among people begin to stick my thoughts
It is hard for me to see me even here yet.
In bed the other hand, dream I'll sit me with others,
at a round table, excited with flashes of wit:
verkaften Would we at least the demons.
we could lease more of our happiness right!
For their attacks on our intelligence,
gives us a bad social life efficiency!
Now I wonder whether it makes wise,
this with the onion and its juice.
For who cooks in itself is soft and dies
off the company, meanwhile corrupts itself.
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