Jill. Fred phoned. He can't make tonight.
He said he'd call again, as soon as poss.
I said (on your behalf) OK, no sweat.
He said to tell you he was fine,
Only the crap, he said, you know, it sticks,
The crap you have to fight.
You're sometimes nothing but a walking shithouse.
I was well acquainted with the pong myself,
I told him, and I counselled calm.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem