A Wrinkled Rain Coat Poem by Michael Gale
A Wrinkled Rain Coat
Cigar butt in stow,
t'ween fingers giving off, a glow
and an appearance of one who
doth not know.
With words repeated and renewed a stuttered
Hardly by all, understood, as muttered.
He'd have His foes dumb founded true
Before realizing that they'd been caught
before He was through.
One eye a closed and one so opened wide
A twinkle inside
Lt., Colombo, buried
Pride-not lied.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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5/8/2024 3:47:37 AM # 1.0.0.1119
