Orange lips lick up
The rough moon 'scaped surface
Aged fairies, forty or more
Scamper out screaming
And waving at smoking
Parts of anatomy, I'd
Rather not name.
I pray softly that the
Firemen would not come
And stand sternly by
As I pour more
Gasoline on the still
Growling fire.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem