I shall, dear reader stop right here.
Though this, to critics may appear
to be an inner, insecure
but outwardly so very sure
and Lederhosenmusketeer.
You note the number, yes of course,
my pen is worn, its voice is hoarse.
The magic three may never come
which, in itself a princely sum,
would ask the author for remorse.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
many will weap to see the beauty of your writting hand no more! Personally I was looking forwaed to compete, maybe our mental ink would finally meet at the crossroads of the literary maze, now sadly I should stay only to gaze; lonely without your thoughts, singly triumphant in my efforts.