Lad, this stuff
has got to stop,
this standing
in the washroom wiping
till the tissue
comes back free
of any fleck of what some
forty wipes ago
it first went after.
Lad, the stuff is there;
it's always there.
Forget it now.
Rewrite your poems.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem