Isolated pumped up funky skunks,
Seldom distance themselves...
To unload their junk.
They want ti know they've been funked up.
They want it to be known,
It is their scent that stinks.
To leave everyone smelling of it.
Reeking with a leaving of their presence.
Isolated pumped up and punked out,
Funky skunks...
Seldom distance themselves...
To unload their trunks filled with weak junk.
And often they will solicit others,
To convince them too...
That a skunking up to stink is needed.
As if this weakness left eventually rules.
But fools to be remain fools to see.
With a smell becoming known to identify too well.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem