Architects exquisite book of self control
isn’t laminated, isn't under oath
All the foundations of arts, crafts and soul
isn't architecture, isn't Johnson's board
They may seem laborious, they may seem so strong
They are stupid thinking they'll evolve
Who do they think they are?
With pencils, rulers, knives they're all barbarians with materialistic lives
They don't know what they need from life
they don't know what they speak
another sarcastic role they play
in world's abusive way
There's no use even knowing them
there's no use even trying
they're hypocrites, they're arrogant
they’re selfish they're unkind
They wish to have a good career
with all means no strings attached
they even kiss a monkey face
although they will be trashed
They’re not the high society
they're enthusiastic jerks
all talking with notoriety
they're lower than bank clerks
This book of self control is all just a lie
a pretender of instability
Vitriolic words their knife
they stab you in the back
they stab you in the heart
they stab you in the mind and soul
they even stab your pride
There's no way to approach them
if you're endocentric sided
you must be self destructive
you soon will be collided
Note: If any architects read this poemo don’t take it personally. It was written during a very stormy period of an affair I had with an architect.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem