MUMBLING,
fumbling,
groggily in line,
your passions leave you sobbing,
and your ecstasy keeps you strong.
TROUBADOUR,
troubadour,
with your two left feet, better pick up your
pieces, and fly to the moon.
MUMBLING,
fumbling,
groggily in line,
the night turns to a smile,
and you, slowly begine to fade.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
SOUNDS LIKE A 'ELL OV O' RIDE THERE, DAVID & A 'ELL OF O' WRITE AS WELL...''''''''''''''''FRANK