Epitaphy (Amphybology) Poem by Markelov Vladimir

The famous Poet here's lying.
Only but now his Masterpiece’s dying.
You WILL not be at all forgotten,
And now your Dreams are in the Sky; well, go to’em!
No critics there are, no ratings.
To Paradise your Soul is flying.
And there, Last Terrible Court pending,
I almost know - it begins to cry.
Really if YOU will turn to ashes,
О h My The leader of the Liars,
Without your blue tattoo moustaches -
Sunset’s not pleasing wetty eyes!
Key to your verses I shall eat,
You’re slow-wided bag of meat!

to Yan Tairowsky