Steal my muse from another time and you’ll have run off with my soul
It takes a village to be sublime
my people out in metre’d rhyme
Prejudice by canned retort sells mead in time of the vanquished sort
manifest by a maddening crowd
What do the pale know of color?
It’s so last season that white is right, let’s out the baby and put up a fight
against these rules that give them clout
they own them all, lets throw them out
and build up walls of a model fort
spinning nothing at all in our own high court
The vacant halls will be our stalls for portraits of friends a la mode
who never come round for lack of sound
in rhyme as beats the heart
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem