Thwarted from the Shortbread and Delta Creams
on the biscuit-tray
in Beverley, S.A.
by a vigilant Queenslander's brush-away,
a fly circumnavigated
and regurgitated and syphoned
what from their lips
was on the rims of my neighbour's cup,
and my neighbour's neighbour's.
Then it gave up.
Amidst the waft of cream
it might have flitted upon
a filling crumb on the floor...
or a poo,
what's to a Queenslander more,
because that
might also have been
its d'oeuvres hors.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I like your writing style and the subject matter of the poem. Well don and point received. Thanks for sharing.