Hermann and Didi # 86039
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Hermann and Didi. By Guðberg Bergsson.
Long live Iceland! they said. Long live the work and the money and the pussy!
When the women heard these shouts of joy, they stuck their heads out through the hatch of the compartment, embraced them, and shouted:
Long live her, long live her hairy! Long live men with hairy palms! Long live Iceland!
Then the door of the cabin opened and an empty cart was kicked out. The door slammed shut, sending a white, icy mist into the windowless room, covering everything in a haze. The youths called out to him through the mist:
Aren't you going to look into the women's cage and see the divas and dills?
"Not much," he replied. "After all, you've probably become unnatural from standing here in the ammonia fumes up to your ankles."
The teenagers made several loud, gurgling noises, stirring up the fog that had settled on the floor at their feet. They rose from the white blanket like angels in clouds and hummed obscene songs.
Beware of the barbed wire, gra, blah, blah! Up to which Sigga? Ride and roar! Pick up Jón's daughter. And no matter where good comes from. Long live the night work!
They frowned and scolded, stuck out their tongues, threw back their heads and growled, stamped their feet on the floor and banged their steel pans together, making a deafening noise.
Ride, ride donuts, ride pancakes, ride thermoses, gurgle after gurgle, and no pot-bellied music, just dance songs and fun.
The teenagers threw after the thin-skinned ones, who smashed into the wall and fell limply to the floor with loud laughter.
Ride the dick, ride the fish!
There are tags in these boys.
Yes, they are nice and work like slaves.
A nation that has such healthy youth is not at a crossroads.
Long live Iceland! they said. Long live the work and the money and the pussy!
When the women heard these shouts of joy, they stuck their heads out through the hatch of the compartment, embraced them, and shouted:
Long live her, long live her hairy! Long live men with hairy palms! Long live Iceland!
Then the door of the cabin opened and an empty cart was kicked out. The door slammed shut, sending a white, icy mist into the windowless room, covering everything in a haze. The youths called out to him through the mist:
Aren't you going to look into the women's cage and see the divas and dills?
"Not much," he replied. "After all, you've probably become unnatural from standing here in the ammonia fumes up to your ankles."
The teenagers made several loud, gurgling noises, stirring up the fog that had settled on the floor at their feet. They rose from the white blanket like angels in clouds and hummed obscene songs.
Beware of the barbed wire, gra, blah, blah! Up to which Sigga? Ride and roar! Pick up Jón's daughter. And no matter where good comes from. Long live the night work!
They frowned and scolded, stuck out their tongues, threw back their heads and growled, stamped their feet on the floor and banged their steel pans together, making a deafening noise.
Ride, ride donuts, ride pancakes, ride thermoses, gurgle after gurgle, and no pot-bellied music, just dance songs and fun.
The teenagers threw after the thin-skinned ones, who smashed into the wall and fell limply to the floor with loud laughter.
Ride the dick, ride the fish!
There are tags in these boys.
Yes, they are nice and work like slaves.
A nation that has such healthy youth is not at a crossroads.