A little uneasy am I,
Butterfly, the great Illustrator,
on seeing my wife's gown's red sash
standing out 'like a sin' in the corner:
she'd been squeezing my blade as I drew.
You see, to compliment Investigator Black,
looking for a clue*, and who
had been eyeing my wife,
I lied, 'A strong pen has a weak knife.'
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem