I beat the Lord at his own game,
I snuck into the graveyard before my shift,
Saw the pawns but I let them live;
I kissed Sarah amidst the awful tulips,
And my aunt applauded and swung her hips.
I proceeded him blindly down into my crypt,
Where he lets me live;
And above it rained and the shadows moved in
Fawning and jubilant, playing bare naked games,
Paddy-caking and hop scotching the red faced tenements;
Sometimes I might hear them whistling feral when the day is
Particularly clear and the cemetery grass like follicles of
A bassoon’s ear brings it to me;
And the Lord just stands there knowing
That all the old masters are dead, and the city is held up
By liquor and inanimate dreams, and murder;
And we are where we belong, just a little further down,
Under the quick-witted feet of ants, and the pullulations
Of the sweaty parade grounds;
And My Lord, what is he going to do about it?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem