Death of the artist in fishnet stockings.(new version of translate)
With the head into the bottom she is dangling on the branch incalculably.
Artist in cabarets what on the big finger has a hole.
She is hanging and she's waiting, until thoughts shrink.
She is dangling by the bone hanged, on the rope from the silk.
She is turning off with shoulders devil's vertebral, isn't sleeping from the month.
She's waiting.
She trained in expectation what is probably domain of fools in today's world rather.
But she knows states, about which other can read at the colour press.
If he wants, she's playing, into the lover from dreams, as cryings, it only in the darkness and to the pillow.
When she's eating, that's all of one colour.
How she's drinking, it to the last drop.
Willingness stopped lives as an inheritance after the grandfather what on the war with the sabre rolled circles and cut songs.
She is as proud as the owl and funny, she is jeering for herself at gunpowder of his ancestors.
Is it left? Bamboozled? Imagined, or blunt?
And whether to ask her about more than only „ make me drunk ”? „ you are saying and you have ” for her she won't come true, because for her in the head such a worm turned off active-citizens.
How you are approaching, she pixel's herself body, she will fold into the small piece and he will put away in the jewellery case, she will bury into the earth for one hundred years.
This soul of the artist how, said my I have, „ from the burnt theatre. ” for her a body, bent into the string is spinning, she divided them to pieces.
As the box of chocolates what consists of the part, all in pieces of paper, but two on very means are without.
The ones they always eat first.
For her living is a dance a bit pertaining to the Straw Man in S. Wyspiański's `Wesele', he is in fact logical, but misunderstood at all.
Straight she is feeling to lie, always from the end to transpose syllables.
She isn't feeling for the laughter this time, when she can see the hand going up above it of the executioner.
The card of the fate was thrown to the table.
You wrote your lyrics down tiny idiot, but what for, I love you, an artist of the Polish rock stage.
Songwriter from you blip up dictionary-wise indeed.
The his from the tongue is penetrating me to the bone.
Fuck, like for me is sorting it, of such a Spanish fucked arrangement of emotions.
Lightly in order to of you at first caress affectionately after legs and thighs, to the crotch appeared.
I will licking for you the ones the crotch like the artist for artist, and there would be this alliance then indeed.
And when after the sharply cut situation of legging it you so kindly deigned to wait for me,
I would already be until the end lordly fucking girl entered in the receipt.
But this dog isn't listening to me, he has loops of the eraser and he is hanging them after himself.
Goodnight fatalist, he is telling me and he is going to his bed, of cold food to reasons of the shit wife.
It fell from a tree in the end, whore artist, divine scrubber.
The time in her memories, nobody will restore taken up to her.
So to be burnt must in the heat of love forever.
She, against what is ordering at learning will commit this mad act.
Because she's conscious of her nasty existence estimable, and detests the mercy.
She wants pain soothing wounds.
She wants to suffer without the prerogative of mercy, too of the ones what loved too firmly blindly.
Therefore alone she will sign her sentence, she will invite the devil to the table,
she will sit down with him, a glass will give vodka, she will strip naked, she will enlist for the last time, with sniff what will bring the cow down, she will spread legs and she will cut to half it.
One half for the a husband, one for the a lover.
The devil will laugh frankly, he will pat her on a slap across the cheek, he will crack whip, he will turn off with spur after for her pale from fear body and will saw off joyfully.
This way here whores are dying, the own wish, as impure thoughts they sold easily, cheap they sold their body.
Left to oneself, they are decaying and they are breaking down.
It is I this way will finish probably, because to sell too cents it's frantic joy.
End of these spits. Amen. Go. Fulfilled victim. Ur's welcome.
Suzanne Volter.
Artist in cabarets what on the big finger has a hole.
She is hanging and she's waiting, until thoughts shrink.
She is dangling by the bone hanged, on the rope from the silk.
She is turning off with shoulders devil's vertebral, isn't sleeping from the month.
She's waiting.
She trained in expectation what is probably domain of fools in today's world rather.
But she knows states, about which other can read at the colour press.
If he wants, she's playing, into the lover from dreams, as cryings, it only in the darkness and to the pillow.
When she's eating, that's all of one colour.
How she's drinking, it to the last drop.
Willingness stopped lives as an inheritance after the grandfather what on the war with the sabre rolled circles and cut songs.
She is as proud as the owl and funny, she is jeering for herself at gunpowder of his ancestors.
Is it left? Bamboozled? Imagined, or blunt?
And whether to ask her about more than only „ make me drunk ”? „ you are saying and you have ” for her she won't come true, because for her in the head such a worm turned off active-citizens.
How you are approaching, she pixel's herself body, she will fold into the small piece and he will put away in the jewellery case, she will bury into the earth for one hundred years.
This soul of the artist how, said my I have, „ from the burnt theatre. ” for her a body, bent into the string is spinning, she divided them to pieces.
As the box of chocolates what consists of the part, all in pieces of paper, but two on very means are without.
The ones they always eat first.
For her living is a dance a bit pertaining to the Straw Man in S. Wyspiański's `Wesele', he is in fact logical, but misunderstood at all.
Straight she is feeling to lie, always from the end to transpose syllables.
She isn't feeling for the laughter this time, when she can see the hand going up above it of the executioner.
The card of the fate was thrown to the table.
You wrote your lyrics down tiny idiot, but what for, I love you, an artist of the Polish rock stage.
Songwriter from you blip up dictionary-wise indeed.
The his from the tongue is penetrating me to the bone.
Fuck, like for me is sorting it, of such a Spanish fucked arrangement of emotions.
Lightly in order to of you at first caress affectionately after legs and thighs, to the crotch appeared.
I will licking for you the ones the crotch like the artist for artist, and there would be this alliance then indeed.
And when after the sharply cut situation of legging it you so kindly deigned to wait for me,
I would already be until the end lordly fucking girl entered in the receipt.
But this dog isn't listening to me, he has loops of the eraser and he is hanging them after himself.
Goodnight fatalist, he is telling me and he is going to his bed, of cold food to reasons of the shit wife.
It fell from a tree in the end, whore artist, divine scrubber.
The time in her memories, nobody will restore taken up to her.
So to be burnt must in the heat of love forever.
She, against what is ordering at learning will commit this mad act.
Because she's conscious of her nasty existence estimable, and detests the mercy.
She wants pain soothing wounds.
She wants to suffer without the prerogative of mercy, too of the ones what loved too firmly blindly.
Therefore alone she will sign her sentence, she will invite the devil to the table,
she will sit down with him, a glass will give vodka, she will strip naked, she will enlist for the last time, with sniff what will bring the cow down, she will spread legs and she will cut to half it.
One half for the a husband, one for the a lover.
The devil will laugh frankly, he will pat her on a slap across the cheek, he will crack whip, he will turn off with spur after for her pale from fear body and will saw off joyfully.
This way here whores are dying, the own wish, as impure thoughts they sold easily, cheap they sold their body.
Left to oneself, they are decaying and they are breaking down.
It is I this way will finish probably, because to sell too cents it's frantic joy.
End of these spits. Amen. Go. Fulfilled victim. Ur's welcome.
Suzanne Volter.