HE oils this world with his spit,
then slobbers his idiotic smile
in the mirror, halls and the blue
tv, he listens and expands this
perpetual plasticity, then begs
the nondescript genie for one
last lay, or some thing close to
it, yes these brakes will last,
and the engine almost new,
and the tires still have tread,
its the driver were worried about,
not the fu..cking car.
HE oils this world with his spit,
then falls into sleep.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem