O my meretricious maverick of this world;
with your words, you make an agress to this man.
To keep a crowd quiet, the power you hold;
your looks ogle at me but words make me wan.
With an olive branch in hand, my voice, you quashed
and quarantined me for my poetic madness.
The mawkish lines I wrote, your silence crashed.
How long this bumbling man can mourn with sadness?
Am I a hoodoo to spoil your future?
For joshing you for fun, you take the gun.
To join wide gaps in your life, I'll make suture.
If you keel haul me, I will make a run.
If you kick me in the teeth, I will take heels;
If you apply the balm, even my deep wound heals.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem