Author's Note: This effort was written by subjecting the lyrics of a certain popular song, line by line, to a multitude of software language translations. I then made minor changes (adding prepositions, adjusting punctuation, et cetera) to make the resulting nonsense a little more cohesive. The meaning of the piece is still entirely subjective.
The Artist's Song
It is this life that I genuinely nightmare while wide awake.
Swallowing me like an avalanche, it has a certain sense of truth and if you stop to be aware, you may peer into the distance and see it as well...
These are not poor boys, for whom compassion is rightly a necessity just because they had come with little, simply a minimum. Instead, be concerned with paths surrounded by wind that have not yet burned.
Mother, for the Right, I have assassinated a man.
Pegolisi adjusted the injector atop the machine but I projected the launching.
He died within the hour.
For mother, life had begun straight-line and the day when they would be separated was a distant move in the game. Mother did not wish for them to form a shout. If this time was not preparing her for tomorrow, she could continue to guide them as if nothing concerning goodness was really difficult.
Too much in him was slow. My moment came. Transmitting a thorn into the surface and as deeply underneath as possible, while my body was completely damaged one piece at a time. Good bye to everything— I must go. I must leave him to be late while I arrange the truth.
The mother, which no effect of the wind direction would wish to die... This whole number desires to time which it never takes.
The boasting coward, a small shadow of an invisible man, stopped the dance with a bolt of lightning— very alarming. Hail the hairdressing salon of gentleman Galileo— it is magnificent!
I do not have a poor boy, anybody to the Right like me.
Isn't a poor family sufficient for a poor boy? Grant him exemptions for the total duration of this amusing thing which lies outside of the normal school.
Then it simply disappears, it simply comes that to the Left we go.
It is the decree of Lasciamo not to go to him— no vacations in Lasciargli for me. Lasciamo is not to go on the vacations, so the prevailed do not go out on vacations— neither you, nor I, nor Lasci de Nonlo are ever to go!
Well, momia mine— I shall exit. The marks of Beelzebub are burned on the head of a devil... but that's just one side of me.
Soon the imaginili lapidate to the death, but he conserves the tears in his eye, and filled with imagination, he eats with the permission of the table. But this cannot create the form of a poor boy for him.
Apanhado Juste, rushing toward his end, went straight up and stopped in order to receive the correct end.
Nothing really imports indifferently, but the ones that realized that nothing good really mattered, really decided nothing good concerning me.
And any face may be burned by the wind...
