Dog tired I lay down my bones;
A breathing breeze blew over as I rested by the brook;
It swept over me and sang sweet songs;
I took out my cook book
And read recipes over and over again
Until McCook me shook and overtook.
Woke up with a start;
Forlorn? I Bjorn, first born son of Bourne?
Couldn't nod such naughty nonsense
‘Cos fine clothes and courtesy I adorn
To blow proud and loud horn
And cast aside any porn corn.
Suddenly, like manna rained plenty dough
To shame alike fiend, fairy and foe
Over the bridge leading to the chateau
Of Arnaud, Biscoe, Cloe and Coe
Where Lowe, Monroe and Poe
Waited in awe of me;
On me honours plenty they bestow.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem