Have you any idea of how silly you look
sitting on that broken chair
on top of a wobbly kitchen table?
A throne it will never be.
You provoke to punch
and decree with arms flailing
whilst your unroyal victims giggle
behind their hands.
Sick, cold, lonely,
arrogant zombie,
you literally freeload
on eavesdroppings
of others who have lives.
(1 December 2006)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem