Then Amsterdam - let's face it - is always good. But how do I hate those channels, those bikes that make you scroll through the life before her eyes every time he crosses the street, the kiosks to waffles? We are not able. Amsterdam is a mock city for young people. Let's say you wear a silly mask to attract tourists eager to binge and then, when you arrive, tadàààà , you damn right. The curtain rises and getting caught by a romantic city but not sickly sweet, even if it drips with sweet maple syrup hidden in each lane. Both the Dutch and then burn the calories in becoming km bike, in that care. Instead of you that you have left pannekoeken stomach all day, and in these moments that you know - fuck - Mediterranean cuisine is truly diet! The red light district is filled with nothing but fat and trans, a sign that the Dutch are the most beautiful whores, you pervert and penniless tourist, you will not make them see mica. Why does Dutch makes you smell the smell of freedom that you in your little fake does not have a democratic country, but then the capital is full of false advertising and false myths. And the tourists grimly pleased, for heaven's sake, may fall enriching the pockets of those glossy blond. Life in Amsterdam, the real one, who knows where.
Where are these elusive young by wild-eyed? To this I would like to live in Amsterdam, to discover it slowly like an onion, until you find the center button, which is not seen or is not, and that in one way or the other is hidden. Maybe the Dutch, the real ones, the waffles do not eat them, maybe break his cock to ride a bicycle in the rain if it rains and are at home watching TV. Maybe they do not smoke and do not go to whores. You're always you pervert tourists who come here in search of hallucinations and alternative worlds best. You walk into a bar and orders apple juice, and marijuana, which is this wonderful world! In Italy and the apple juice exist? Walk hand in hand with your sweetheart and watch windows that sell sex as if nothing had happened. If your boyfriend in Italy only look at the ass of blonde at the bottom, the part sganassone. But we are in Holland, here there are no churches, no eyes Catholics, we are not jealous of Sicily. We are "strangers", eh. The Dutch glossy blonde hair not flying this way and enter the bar. Am I allergic to this euphoria temporary transfer to first shipment. Every day hundreds of Pinocchio flooded the streets of this Toyland. They are probably just tired of seeing them go away with ears like a donkey. But I'd take me a little house here. A house in Spiegelstraaaat type, with tinted windows and very high, not Persian, because in Holland the gossip it's not a disease. A two-story house with steep narrow stairs narrow and steep (the Dutch are descended from the gnomes) that if you smoked and you're on the second floor but the highpoint is a flight to glide. If I am on the ground floor, I put the lattice. In Holland, if bit ago. The thieves are all in the coffee shops to get the reeds and singing Bob Marley. Who knows. And I plant the tulips making me the dicks of others, so that they do not give a damn. Instead, for me that life would be! What a life!
Where are these elusive young by wild-eyed? To this I would like to live in Amsterdam, to discover it slowly like an onion, until you find the center button, which is not seen or is not, and that in one way or the other is hidden. Maybe the Dutch, the real ones, the waffles do not eat them, maybe break his cock to ride a bicycle in the rain if it rains and are at home watching TV. Maybe they do not smoke and do not go to whores. You're always you pervert tourists who come here in search of hallucinations and alternative worlds best. You walk into a bar and orders apple juice, and marijuana, which is this wonderful world! In Italy and the apple juice exist? Walk hand in hand with your sweetheart and watch windows that sell sex as if nothing had happened. If your boyfriend in Italy only look at the ass of blonde at the bottom, the part sganassone. But we are in Holland, here there are no churches, no eyes Catholics, we are not jealous of Sicily. We are "strangers", eh. The Dutch glossy blonde hair not flying this way and enter the bar. Am I allergic to this euphoria temporary transfer to first shipment. Every day hundreds of Pinocchio flooded the streets of this Toyland. They are probably just tired of seeing them go away with ears like a donkey. But I'd take me a little house here. A house in Spiegelstraaaat type, with tinted windows and very high, not Persian, because in Holland the gossip it's not a disease. A two-story house with steep narrow stairs narrow and steep (the Dutch are descended from the gnomes) that if you smoked and you're on the second floor but the highpoint is a flight to glide. If I am on the ground floor, I put the lattice. In Holland, if bit ago. The thieves are all in the coffee shops to get the reeds and singing Bob Marley. Who knows. And I plant the tulips making me the dicks of others, so that they do not give a damn. Instead, for me that life would be! What a life!
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