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Med solen i fickan och myggbett på benen.
Med röda tankar och löv som prasslar.
Med frost i ögonen och raggsockor i skorna.
Med tussilago bakom örat och mod i blicken.

Jag, jag, jag, jag.
Jag kan nog göra det med femtio:
Tio fingrar, tio tår och lika många förälskelser. 

"She should have died hereafter; 
There would have been a time for such a word. 
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, 
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, 
To the last syllable of recorded time; 
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools 
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! 
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player 
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage 
And then is heard no more. It is a tale 
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury 
Signifying nothing."