We'll I'll be--
Er maybe I'll not.
That is the qwestin, ain't it?
But my own qwestin,
Bout this junk
Is who the heck now made it?
Was it a man
With yeller teeth
And scrawny, skimpy fingers?
With a roll a tape
And a hot glue gun
That leaves a smell that lingers?
Melted plastic
Smudgy soot
Cracks and splinters- wires
Bacon grease and
Wildebeest and
Mulleraceous mire
Cabbage roots
Bubble boots
Epileptic lizards
Cornmeal putty
Gabblesnoots
And deep-fried chicken gizzards.
I don't know
And won't be learned
How anyone finds pleasure
In this here heap o'
Rotten burned here
Junk, that's one man's treasure.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem