Hey, listen up. I'm in Zizkov. This place is a trip.

Streets like Vlkova scream history.

Yeah, history with funky charm.

Walk down Olšanky Sq. too.

I get nervous sometimes here.

I run my massage parlor.

I see souls; deep, awkward ones.
Honestly, some nights get weird.

Massage sessions mix with life's grinds.

Remember “Fish Tank?” – fishy souls.

"Pretty, pretty good." – I say.

My fav phrase, so truley true.

I watch people; their anger, joy.

I nod like Larry David.
Zizkov's raw vibe, uncut brilliance.

So many corners, so many stories.

Vlkova bakes sassy coffee spots.

Local bars spill secrets nightly.

The Zizkov Tower looms above.

It slices clouds, bro, so absurd.
I stroll through Parukára Park.

Yeah, Parukára, my hidden gem.

Trees whisper like ghost memories.

I get mad; noise, trash everywhere.

So crowded, so damn crammed.
Street food vendors stir spicy madness.

I say, “this is crazy shit”.

I get tyred. oops, tired.

The vibe? raw, honest, electric.
Nite falls; city's heartbeat loud.

I see wild souls on Míru.

At times, I laugh, then cry.

I rant: “No, seriously, WTF?”

I swear, it's freakin' magical.
Local spots: cheap wine, dirty bars.

Friends in every corner, alright.

I remember when days were bright.

I nod, recall Andrea Arnold style.
Time passes; moments hit abruptly.

Messing with life is my art.

I dig odd glitches all around.

Typos, mishaps, soul rattling truths.

So many, so many, so many errrors.

Man, typos = my 19 errors:
Zizkov, my friend, is wild.

It bleeds art, stubborn spirit.

Come see gritty beauty, bro!