My name is Oscar and I love to play the tin drum
I take him with me wherever I go
When the tin drum hits, you're out of luck
Before I knew it, I had grown up
And there are fields, guns, smoke, ruins, crying, running men, and women in four-layer skirts.
I'd also like to get back under the old woman's skirt if I could.
But the train had to take me away to another unknown skirt.
Or it's initially mixed with tobacco leaf sweat, or wrapped in sweet, fresh and magical, or aura mysterious with cinnamon and nutmeg. Beating the tin drum, I have drilled under one skirt after another.
White foam bloomed on her, I rushed up to open my mouth and swallowed it. It turns out that the entrance to heaven, the other side of time, is just in the middle of her.
She said I was just scrambling around, not knowing what life was or what death was.
I still can't forget her blue eyeballs, and it's not just hers.
In a broad sense, blue is infinitely close to transparent blue, and the blue is bright. It should be pierced with broken glass ballast.
In the end, I had to bury my little iron drum. Just like three years old, fall, fall, and be born again.
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