Guy was a real roust-a-bout:
Drinking, drugging, whoring;
Not coming home;
Not leaving home.
Yes, he was troubled,
He was a handful.
But he looks so good,
And the arrangements
Are splendid.
We take turns
Congealing over him
To conceal scars.
Sorry for your troubles,
Then and now.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem