All new

Börp. Chrrrrrrwk. Ppah. Bittergallisch crackles of the throat. Body mass with mustache claps against the traffic light at my window, in this difficult dustbin of the plate and can be again the previous evening by the head. Rewind. Stückchenpfütze on the Waschbetontrottoir. Bratwurst likely. And little coward. And beer. Ne crowd. Maybe Cola Korn.

"Boah Willi, mach hinne times," mumbles his pal.

"Hatred even in well. But was cool, or age? Was really cool! "

Willi spits again. Börp. Chrrrrrrrrwk. Ppah.

"Joah. Unnnnächsses year. "

Then rotate both of Schalalalalalala "to" We wolln seeehn the pugs, we wolln the Möpse seeeehn "and schlangenliniiert lurch in the direction of Bremen. Still a while and blow schlager- schnapstrunkene slogans by early Sunday morning. Willi and his pals were not alone. Micky Krause has since demolished the hut. It is five o'clock in the morning. It is over, "the largest cone Party Europe" in the Münsterland hall, a stone's throw from my apartment. The party's seems to have liked. They were probably there, too.