I knew a Stan. He drove an Acura and didn't spend any time touching women.
He once drank a coffee mug of gasoline on a $10 dare and had to get his stomach pumped.
I watched him eat a banana, peel and all, when he didn't think anyone was watching him.
Sometime when you'd ask him how his day had been, he'd reply, simply 'Spiders.'
He was not me. I was John. Still am.
But Johns can pay for their dates,
and girls won't take my money.
Stan had a pair of overalls he'd wear on days when he was feeling 'flutey.'
I don't know what that means,
but I think it means his life is better
than I am.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem