Beneath the sordid streets,
the beat streaks from below.
Deep down underground,
Camden underworld
is heaving.
I am right in believing,
that poets don't dance.
From the side,
Eyes wide,
Observing those who dance
the night away,
whilst I play word games,
and only dance with the
words in my head.
with feet like lead.
I envy you, who can Dance,
and drink, and move
like monkeys.
There is no fun,
in poetry.
There in no sun,
in misery.
All your smiles,
sadden me,
for you are free,
to dance the night away.
Vincey, you have SO got to ready 'Saturday Night Fever' by Tai Chi Italy. She'll teach you about poets not being able to dance, ha ha ha! ! This little number of yours here, Vincey, is both funny and sad. Chin up, sweets, chin up! With warmth, Gina.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
somehow somewhere this poem doesnt work well.