The morning radio
Gossips endlessly like the buzz of flies,
A mad old guest picking its nose
And at sporadic intervals,
Bursting into abysmal bits of melody.
The world's mind funnels into
This omnivorous duct,
Busy experts tart up the nonsense
To be excreted into homes
Throughout the world.
At discrete intervals
Keys are offered
To sex or money
Or the exultant defeat
Of constipation.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem