I play with death
And I know it well,
Two dollars insure
A place out of hell.
And no one believes
That it all will end,
So no one believes
Or commits any sin.
Just cattle for feed
men for sale,
It's all the same,
Here in hell.
A color or creed
Same all around,
Same as the trees,
Dead on the ground.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
'Lord Byron Jones' refers to a character in a short film I saw about racism. The only poem I have ever written about a 'Literary' work.