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Grasshoppers *** my neurons.
Everywhere microphones are posed.
Each want listen what is said at the door of the others.
Everyone want to control everyone.
One night cloistered at the back of the bus, in lack of sheets,
When you have full concepts in the head, and you don't know who write it,
you take what you have to hand.
You finish by scrape your madness on rolling papers.
Finally in a start of lucidity
you decide you to use it downhill of this *** bus to smoke.
Each time that you will listen me, my reflect will be you.