Down at the local bingo club,
You’re precious free evenings were spent
Willing to spend your one last cent
…Powering nose …holding a stub.
With only time for one more hug,
Unpicking a stitch on your shirt:
Then hand-brushing crumbs off your skirt
Which couldn’t feed a mealybug?
Hunger remains on plate in girth
Still lacking daily substances
No size of win, even in bucketful’s
Fetch this woman some happy mirth.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem