Hunter's huntin are all beech
they delet all things with bleach
with their theory of leech
they'r sackers droolers spooks
with their feckin stoopid hooks
sav it up...
so the free dome is broken
with their relics of unspoken
there is no rejuvenation
so i ll start my pasturmation
so they eat it all like jarks
fackin cuants shyt on ur pants
can u sensor my fuart
in this resticted kinda of art
i ll turn to joan of arc
in this pointless war of mark
u r buss tards of disgust
kiss my ash and take the bus
go to burnin hell and crash
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Insightful and a rather clever use of language!