It's a small black book that contains my life:
My mistresses' names and my dear ex-wife.
From my brokers fees to my dentists chair.
Even the girl who does my hair.
The friends that I know and many I don't,
Some that I'll visit but most that I won't
Without it I'm lost, I'd have nowhere to go,
And everyone thinks that I have it for show.
That book, it stays black, as my hair fades to grey.
I wish I could just throw that damned book away.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem