He wondered if his verse was made for mules
and chickens cackling their jazzy tales,
composing dull sonnets was chased by bulls,
by elegant giraffes and crazy snails.
Amid the donkeys, in his country cot,
while gulping spirits the pig-farmer writes;
his scrawl becomes a cultivated naught
and straight he quaffs one more for his insights.
The detrimental muse of his confused
absconding inspiration, though, evades
his verses that were alcohol-abused
and drinking up the Absinth liquor, fades.
The prompting advent of a healthy burp
made pigs and chickens to comment 'superb'!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Inspiring poem, thanks. I invite you to read my poems and comment.