When I do my party crashing
I jump in with my arms a-thrashing,
and sit me down beside the host
until he’s offered me a toast,
and do not leave till all agree
that they are for more pleased with me
than with the guests who are more dashing,
but very much all bores, quite crashing.
My writing skills are very quaint,
some think I’m good, most think I ain’t,
but when I’ve finished party crashing,
I don’t much care for people bashing,
obituaries of those I’ve crossed
and those who’d rather I were lost,
but write down every last complaint,
although my wife says that I mayn’t.
(11/25/03)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem