The famous Poet here's lying.
Only but now his Masterpiece’s dying.
You WILL not be at all forgotten,
And now your Dreams are in the Sky; well, go to’em!
No critics there are, no ratings.
To Paradise your Soul is flying.
And there, Last Terrible Court pending,
I almost know - it begins to cry.
Really if YOU will turn to ashes,
О h My The leader of the Liars,
Without your blue tattoo moustaches -
Sunset’s not pleasing wetty eyes!
Key to your verses I shall eat,
You’re slow-wided bag of meat!
to Yan Tairowsky
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem