NO sermons, just board pieces,
and a wisper from a beatifull
dissident,
and the strange preacher yells,
sinner, sinner, repent, or go to hell,
NO sermons, just dry- dust and a
cup of carnel bliss, that beatifull
carnel bliss,
and that strange preacher, yells,
sinner, sinner, repent, or go to hell,
the appalled preacher ends his
talk, and goes in the back to take
his drugs, and masterbate.....
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A stunning piece of verse, Sir David! Let it not be said that you ever shyed away from a subject matter''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''fjr