Crisis nags like a baying hound
at those who wear it as a crown
who drink its sorrow long and deep
and spit up wisdom on the cheap
forming mountains from every spill
girded by misery broker's pills
the very presence of such pills
behooves adherence to such ills
and tax incentives for reported abuse
afford the weak a pat excuse,
as holding fast the victim role
enforces pleas to salt the dole.
The anatomy of crisis forms
from birth 'till feed for hungry worms
we watch, listen, recite, 'oh, well...'
descend by bounds through Dante's hell
while some persist to keep it 'round
peddling Souls for a day's renown.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem