The dead have fun in calling us names,
Even mimicking and disrespecting,
With pathetic and fancy nicknames,
Which prompt a poetic justice deflecting,
Idiot bobicidal connotations,
Of another proletarian woodbine,
Their rank female scag adjudications,
As expected, from gross dead less than bovine,
Their mild, shy flattering was intercepted,
They are denounced and worked in these verses,
Goes without saying that they aren't accepted,
But taken as mere dead johnsoneses,
The cramped speeches of these commodities,
Their oxymorons, are sad oddities.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem