Is cold outside why don’t you come inside,

Gloomy Sunday, wet and muggy,

My flap is open to you to penetrate me,

Don’t be shy, the money on the night table,

Turn her ageing flesh to youth,

Close your eyes and powder your nose,

Excuse me for a minute,

I have to get ready,

I close the door of middle class,

Perfumes all over, make up room,

I start to wonder if the corpse on the bed,

Is not rotting, necrophilia?


Disguise, spread on the couch,

I start to think of myself as a creep,

But I have to pay the rent

And the bed is a rather pretty coffin,

I kneel on my knees,

I suck up the white prayer,

I open the door, naked,

She gives me a twisted smile,

And tell me to seat on the edge of my horror.


My hands caress her bourgeoisie’s cellulite,

I think of my last night wonder,

And my manhood respond,

Go on son! before is too late,

The corner of my eyes,

Posed on the cash,


My lips pushed again hers,

Don’t breaths push deeper,

She moans like a pig,

I go deeper, my soul crash in some slaughter house,

I was lucky, she let her pleasure,

Fill the room, like a banshee,

Still smiling with her crooked smile,

Her hand grabs the money,

And shovel it in my hands,

Like the earth soon over her,

Thank you honey…


“My pleasure, see you at your sweet funeral”,

But, all spills from my mouth are:

“Really enjoy this, my hand clinching the money.”



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