Hey, we are Naffy Avenue. It's cold and you don't hug me, hey mom, put on the glasses. I don't want to see you at all, your copera doesn't attract me. Dry your tears and tell me that you love me, that you don't hate me. Tell me if you want Prada or De La Paca, or Balenciaga, Plum or Plata, Cupido or Madafaka. Time is running out, there is no patience, some believe in God and others believe in science. I believe in your words, salty or sweet, both pass me the same, neither you nor your lights. I feel you in my chest, like your house, your bunker for grenades, my flowers, your salad, it's Jamaican. And smoking calms these desires, to hear that you miss me. The white flower in front of me, it doesn't even catch the eye, it's blooming, but. The white flower in front of me, it doesn't even catch the eye, it's blooming, but. Sometimes I think a lot and sometimes I think little, the vest is broken. I wake up with another one and I don't even buy it with me, yours is a whole podium. Erroneous feeling, rotten inside, I don't even see January, on which side is good? With lemon and saliva, it goes and withdraws, throws, Bohemian feeling, Lucho Vatica. You are a paradise, of a parasite and parasites without a course, aromatic, Julio Jaramillo. Yesterday and today, the bolero is heard and I don't hear your voice, I beat my heart, already without sun, and I thought the song was over, and I thought the love was over. And I thought the love was over.