Kafić Бирцуз на крају свемира

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Sto bi ti neko pravjo led za dzabe
em kosta struja
em kosta voda
em kosta ledomat da ga kupis
em kosta odrzavanje jer se kvare i najbolji redovno
em kosta ta ambalaza u koju se pakuje
em kosta radnik koji se sa time zaiebava
i onda dodje neko i kaze vidi ovi naplacuju led

naplacuju ! nego sta ! i treba !
nas narod naviko da dobija za dz i da ne ceni nista tudje

ja bi stavio 110 din casa leda
ima i putni frizider i moze i od kuce da se nosi led <3
 
On a rainy night in 1977, Mark Knopfler stepped into a nearly empty pub in Deptford, a run-down corner of South London. He wasn't looking for inspiration. He was just looking for a couple of pints and somewhere to get out of the weather.
In the corner of the pub, a small Dixieland jazz band was setting up. They were older men, dressed modestly, their instruments showing years of use. As Knopfler settled in with his drink, they began to play.
The music was unremarkable. The band was what Knopfler would later describe as "a very average little Dixieland jazz band." Around them, the pub's sparse clientele—perhaps three or four people total—paid them almost no attention. A couple of young men in brown baggies and platform shoes played pool at the far end, completely indifferent to the trumpet and drums filling the space.
Knopfler, at least, appreciated that someone was trying. He called out requests—"Creole Love Call," "Muskrat Ramble"—classic jazz numbers that most pub crowds wouldn't recognize. The band members seemed genuinely surprised that anyone in the audience actually knew the music they were playing.
For two hours, the band played their hearts out to a room that didn't care. They gave it everything despite the empty seats, the inattention, the sheer thanklessness of the moment. And then, as the set ended and it was time to pack up, the bandleader stepped forward with what Knopfler would remember as "a mildly enthusiastic" announcement.
"Goodnight and thank you," he said. "We are the Sultans of Swing."
 
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