L: «Rucki Zucki ... Rucki Zucki ...»
F: «Rosinante.»
L: «Rucki Zucki ... Rucki Zucki ...»
F: «Rosinante!»
L: «Leave poor Rosinante alone. The song doesn't go like that at all!»
F: «Sure it does. Because the baroque mare Rosinante was resurrected in the carnival times of the 70's of the last century as the raunchy cult figure ‹Rucki Zucki Rosinante›. Young and old monomaniacally repeated the three-word song, exuberantly stomped up and down on the spot, and swayed tightly crowded to the right and left in rhythm ...»
L: «It’s just two words ... besides, Rosinante is a ‹he›. And the song is called: ‹Rucki Zucki, that's the newest dance, that's the new trend that everyone recognizes right away!› I should know, I used to dance to this at the firemen's carnival and there are photos of me doing it among streamers!»
Q: «At least you haven't always been like Don Quixote, dried up into a sapless rattle on an equally rickety horse. Or shrunk round to subaltern servant size to a mute flour sack on a mule, like Sancho Panza.»
L: «Now don't get me started on masters and servants. No señor, Don Quixote y Sancho Panza no estan aquí!»
F: «With you, old chain stitch, there is not even a quivering anarchistic vein, which at least sometimes shimmers erotically or at least still cerebrally. You've got a hole in your brain!«
L: «You're getting sassy. That means you're getting better!»
F: (whinnying) «I feel crazy!»
L: «Then there's no fat oversized bolster for a break for now.»
F: «There's certainly no question of pleasant rest. In – out, in – out. Baila, borriquito!»
L: «All stitches tight – no stumbling, no hopping.»
F: «No, no no no no, señor!»
L: «Don Quixote y Sancho Panza? Hoy también siguen luchando!»
F: «Yes exactly! Because the ‹it› from ‹He, She, It› needs more presence, so that ‹it› doesn't get down, but delivers a linguistically momentous term.»
L: «Your psychosomatics are distracting every devil! ‹Turn›, you must mean. Like ‹turn over› in the pattern.»
F: «No, that's not what I mean at all! Besides, you don't turn anything over, because, after all, you crocheted the hyperreal bolster in spirals and didn't sew it together ...»
L: «True again.»
F: «... but your concealed desire in rhythms of crochet needles threatens to burst with space-displacing force and, moreover, heavy-weight the narrowness of the shop window.»
L: «Rucki Zucki!»
F: «Rosinante, even.»