Moving along in the lions skin,
With the idioplasma of each part striving,
With the exception of the mind;
With the belief of existence,
With the fawns causing vain,
With the dopamine reaching every withered muscle,
Anticipating the false belonging,
Riding a mile each day from the
truth;
The flaming tobacco snugged in their
Thick cigars,
The glittering golden tresses falling
Over their naked shoulders,
The desirable flesh in their bottoms
Moving up and down,
Looking around for thrills;
As there is pleasure in
Doing things, while your mind
Is afraid of getting caught;
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem