.Cielo arriba, suelo abajo
Pan de trigo luz de neón
Yo aquà vivo, quinto piso
No consigo sonreÃare
Y la tele es un revólver>
Y el vecino es un canÃbal como yo
Y hay tanta gente por la calle
Disimulando la amargura
Hay tantos lunes que los viernes
EstÃ.
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