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Victor Petit-Felici

Egotrip dans une cuisine



Et là, le type a dit : 



« I add sense to every word.

I packed my stuff and left.

Left your blue eyes wide open.


Sense to every word.


Who needs a sick bag,

From the Pan Am Airlines ?


Or an old torn trench coat

Full of ashes.

None will ever let you down.

None will ever let you down.


You’re a beating grain

Giving all the landlords pain.


You’re a firefly framing boy scouts,

In the palm of your hand.


Of your open hollow hand.



And I’m the Great disciplined Gatsby,

I’m sleeping on the kitchen floor.


But I’m leaping upward now.


I’m Buster Keaton with a strategy.


I can tap dance the night away.


I’m Cole Porter stumbling down the stairs : 


« Should I order Cyanure,

Or order Champagne ? »


Don’t your ever come near me.

I’ll rip your lungs out, baby.


I’m a womanizing,


Bag of of proteins.


An endless glycogen source.

Fat dripping out of my eyes.

I’m the sick bag from the Pan Am Airlines.

The ash on the coat.

But I’m not the rose on your cheeks.


I’ve left a fold song by the door.
It had sense in every word. »


C’est quand même bizarre, quoi.

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