Alle 55 Texte von Roger-Bôtan

My honey's lips are colourless and dull, Her eyes are so opaque that I get bored, There grows no hair upon the ugly skull, The tits are flatter than an ironing board. Her cheeks are not like roses fresh and young, They urge me to go out...

A sprinter was able to sprint As fast as a bird on the wind, Though his ass and two legs Had between them square eggs And were neither feathered nor winged.

Quis monstrat mihi nunc suum timendum Distortumque malignitate vultum Quem credo esse cadaver insepultum Uno tempore pallidum et cruentum ? An quaedam Furia scelus pudendum Ulcisci iubeat me adhuc inultum ? An Fortuna animo in meo tumultum...

The streetlamp shines brightly outside, By night it outshines any light, But by day it’s no brighter Than the piss of a writer Who thinks that his writings are bright.

— Le sé orar oración a Dios. — ¿Es oída? — No, Ícaro: raro es Él. — ¡Amad! — Al oírnos rajar sonrió la dama. La zorra es en ese arrozal.