When the pong hits the sky like a vrot pizza pie, that’s Amore.
When her tongue seems to sting at his latest fling, that’s Amore.
Heads will ring ting-a-ling-a-ling, ting-a-ling-a-ling.
And you think “Bliksem bella”.
The smell will stay tippy-tippy-tay, tippy-tippy-tay.
Like a stray flatulantella.
When his fans make him drool like a pasta fazool, where’s Amore?
Doing drugs down the street with a chick at his feet, where’s Amore?
When he floats in a dream but he knows he’s not dreaming, signore.
Scusa me, but you see, back in lekker Tshwane, waits Amore.
When the pong hits the sky like a vrot pizza pie, that’s Amore.
When her tongue seems to sting at his latest fling, that’s Amore.
Heads will ring ting-a-ling-a-ling, ting-a-ling-a-ling.
And you think “Bliksem bella”.
The smell will stay tippy-tippy-tay, tippy-tippy-tay.
Like a stray flatulantella.
The poor fella …
– Anonymous, November 2009
(Stuur jou gedigte na bydraes by roekeloos.co.za) Digters is ook welkom om een foto te stuur vir publisering.