Are these lights, always
red
Like these lines always
long
As to moan and do
wail
About all that is
wrong
Meets, for their
markets
From the hot little
pot
Caught out so
completely
Not knowing what's
what
And too, wish when it
ends
Who could just rewind
it
Been such a long time
now
To try and just f'n find
s#it
Scheming away about
pleasure
Ooh persecuting with pain at
leisure
Rubbing the chin taking it all
in
Depths not but one thing can
measure
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem