We’re up all Mexican lucky


Your skin is burning, your black soul, so pale
Take a good breakfast with a sunny ray
Cope, cope with cytokines, be gentle.

All women are meant to be sensible
Wait until the rain comes throughout the way
Your burning skin, your black soul is so pale.

Young kids, believe they can fly, adorable
As fine as an Angora wool in a fatal delay,
Cope, cope with cytokines, be gentle.

A nimble man eats a red big apple
But the taste of tea and money stays
Your starving stomach, has to be ample.

Unborn eggs, far from verve on foxhole
A generation beats tomorrow, today and yesterday
Cope, cope with cytokines, be gentle.

On the Franklin mountain, a bright star dazzle
A marginal twin city, causing an affray
Your burning skin, your black soul is so pale
Cope, cope with cytokines, be gentle.

A city glows after all the shit
Weightless in a toilet state of a country
We revolutionize from carefree violent city
Into the Mexican lucky, which is now easy
To be entertaining in a fucking good poem.

By Edgar Javier Ulloa Lujan

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