All the wonderful poetry, I've written on napkins,
Probably about sex, education, or life.
The kind of stuff you don't talk about sober,
Maybe about me, or me and your wife.
Not writing anymore on the napkins,
Don't worry, I'm completely fine.
The paper quality has gotten so poor,
And it's hard to make even a line.
Getting back now to all of the napkins,
Which is really what this is all about.
Convenient, and always a challenge,
Recording my sins, thoughts, and my doubt.
So much for my days with the napkins,
A poet drunken and stupor and seer.
Missing the days tossed in the trashcan,
Thus beginning my illustrous career.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem