Seven seven seven and seven without you

    The fried fish takes a hike down the street with an old negro slave and his bicycle.
  A couple of wornout shoes and a song that you´d never forget
  announced the presence of dead kings and queens.
    The tales told of those who doubted the suspicion would work,
  and four blonds in white dresses waves without entering.
    A fork and a knife – take a hike –
  the trees didn´t leave before the winter pulled through.
  In the land of the mulatta I am not me but someone other to you than I used to be.
  And yellow cabs from Russia still amaze me.
    Seven long hours in seven days from now, I´ll spend seven years in a cell and seven without you.

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