Un incendie à Paris

The apartment of Madam Desbordes burns and Madam Desbordes burns in it like a Carthaginian goddess:
why do you ask me the address? Rue Phériphérique 2***, 7th floor "J"
wait! 

A joker of July is coming to rescue her hips from the pyros walking on a tightrope while the pipelines that transport le gas start protesting with matallic vox: as background, the nervous chimneys of a factory where the nougats are inflated float in the drunk haze.

Madam Desbordes shouts like a nun, and the buffoon or paillasse walks slower at every step, oh no! It's a perverse Harlequin! Un payaso malo!

The flames lick the buttocks of Madam Desbordes with the crepitant noïse of her lacey thong scorched by the crunchy ardencies, as if a phallus of fire would start penetrating 'em:

help! Help! —She yells— while the perverted jester walks on the wire slower and slower, as a luciferian smile appears in his face.