From hearsay and firsthand reports
he wore light beige Bermuda shorts.
A shirt of flowers, very loud
he mingled with the weekend crowd.
It was, he later did confide
a camouflage with skill applied
he needed incognito status
which meant that not a single flatus
could be allowed to leave his gut
(he wore a gadget in his butt) .
No one could ascertain the reason
for him to spend another season
when tourists chased the Native folk
and drank old Bourbon aged in oak.
Well, he was spotted taking notes
of humans, dogs and passing boats,
a clipboard fastened to his belly
incorporated a small telly,
and two way links to forward on
through waves across the Rubicon.
What no one found or even guessed
is why he groomed himself and dressed
in such an entertaining manner
it was like raising a huge banner
alerting those who were his prey,
but, who he was, I cannot say.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem