Aiming high, and hitting low.
Some days it's all I can do to drift.
No one to see, no where to go.
Living life by the seat of my gift.
When all my lips can do is spit complaints
I want you to know:
My tongue was always aiming straight
It's just that my teeth are full of holes.
What I mean to give, and what unfolds
Depends. Sometimes I swaller what I meant to send
Or pass along the dollar that I meant to hold.
I bend to give an ornery feller a helping hand
and only pass him wind.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem