What an erratic town, that one. They all lived upside down: say four today and no tomorrow at all. A nightcap on his feet, and his sock would lie on his helmet.

Not only man, but also the heavens and the earth were quite confused. In that town, the walnut shell was hiding the cherry. And the sound of the warm South Wind in the evening brought them all home, not at all: he led the men to the court, the women to the attic, the pigs to the room, and the chickens to the kitchen.

“That’s the wrong town,” his old grandfather recalled.

REPUBLICANS, MONARCHISTS. The top was the bottom, and the bottom was the top. The porch, the attic. The mule, the basement... In that picturesque town, they had a socialist government: the red, the workers’ party, the Unified and Unified Socialist Party for the Pueblo Fino and the Workers.

The Honourable Mr President was the chief teacher of all the extraordinary people there. Among all the jewels, that one is the jewel. And if the socialist president there had a good relationship with anyone, he had it with Don Kapon Bonbon and the traditionalist king Horrible... If the king wanted a virgin for after dinner, the president would bring her a bouquet of cellophane flowers. If he wanted the boy, the same. Because, unlike others, in this, these socialists were very advanced.

But even in that picturesque village, dogs are barefoot and cats barefoot.
When the people demanded that the bells of the bell towers be silent and dumb at night, the king of Bonbon and Horarray did not sign an order to do so: “Because he would not sleep peacefully.” When the trade unions wanted to reduce the taxes of the workers, the firefighting king did not write a decree: “Because the bosses of the banks would not quietly go to sleep.” When the government made the law to help the Third World, the withered king did not approve the law: “Because that Third World, for once, had to learn to take advantage of

it by force.” IN BLACK PANTS... And yet, for years, this political and ideological marriage went perfectly well for the lovers of the monarchy and socialism. They were all victorious, helping each other in real trouble. The town was lost in the north. Oh, that's right. But that wasn’t important, they said.
One dry summer, the crisis came and things got really bad. The popular protest buzz was not long delayed... the socialists called for a general strike.
Only some of them. The trade unions. Because the government went on to say that in that Monarchical Republic there was no need to protest... that it would only benefit the enemy forever and not the people. But it did, so go on strike.
The mood of the Monarchical Republic did not change much: the king continued in his eccentricities, the president continued in his eccentricities; and the people, unable to find the North Needle.
The old grandfather told his nephew that this king made fashionable the stupidity of sewing patches in black pants with white thread with the help of the president. “What nonsense,” said the grandfather. And he kept whispering: “But, whether you are a socialist or a zozolist, the government is always at a low price, and that king is always at a high price!”