On the train going west, a snooping man asked questions
asking about other peoples but saying nothing about himself.
I told him a tale so violent he paled and left at the next stop.
Believed in my story when the train stopped in Liverpool
had few pint looked at my visit card stating I was a bookseller,
but that was a ruse; I was a Russian assassin sent to kill some
agents that had turned and they sat in the pub.
When the smoke from our revolvers cleared, they were dead
and the landlord refused to serve me, and the game was up
Yes, your Honour, I'm in the book trade.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem