All men are beggars, white or black;some worship gold, some peddle brass.My only house is on my back.
Can’t say he walked the walk.Talked it, but everybodydid that, everybody
He makes a left turn, then a right one. Then left, then right again. Left, right—his car marches through the streets of Kičevo, zigzags, as if descending an endless stairway.
