Wisconsin is no place
for those who are lactose
intolerant, but I enjoy
the hops and believe this
city has a cheap apartment
for me to dwell in as I
count my sheep and dream
beyond brats and pigskin
One day I'll set a
way point for California
where the sand is stained
with medical green, where The Beats
once frolicked when controversy
was their flag at the peek
and Bukowski accidentally
created a wastoid philosophy
But until then I'll waste
away with the venison, victimized
by rednecks and rot before a
LCD screen displaying reality
TV passing the time of the
ignorantly blissful types
concealing weaponry and enjoying
their lives
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem