Through the veil of tears,
The Weeping idiot fails to see.
The object of his sorrow, with glee,
picks his pocket from behind, while wearing
A fake face.
Unbeknownst to the tear-blinded fool,
The masses take his glasses, blinding him
And use him as a tool.
As though he were paper, they use
His bleeding heart's ink to write a check,
Wreck
The free,
They don't give a fig.
And the world's their playrig.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem