Wailing heard through an amplified tshauv queej,
And constant beat of the drums.
Through the quick bangs,
Arrives the light rum.
For all men to drink,
To feel drunk to the brink.
All for the deceased they said,
Hearty laughs and tuxes are the Head
Of this damned place. This process
That assumes to lead us to success.
Nostalgic sounds, nostalgic words
Nostalgic mourns, and nostalgic birds.
Always appear in the face of death,
The day we exhale our very last breath.
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