.
.
.
.
All to hell we must sail
for the shores os sweet Barbados
were the sugar cane grows taller
than the god we once believed in
.
.
Till the butcher and his crown
raped the land we used to sleep in
now tomorrow chimes of ghostly crimes
that haunt Tobacco Island
.
.
.
.
wattafffffffffffffffffffffuck! nicegrog!
ResponderEliminarponle a eso una tetilla y hazte un biberón
ResponderEliminarjajajajaja
ResponderEliminarrico ricoooh