My thoughts rhymed, in crescendos
To your pitch; what child is this
Kicking the stars back to the firmament,
He's either early or late, depending
On your take; so we'll dig a shallow grave
So we can plant and save
The little baby seeds.
Men and women do that dance
The furtive one, the flirty one;
Circling round each other's base
They weigh and size each word and look,
They preen like birds, anticipate
The anti-climactic narrow escape
From those who do not please.
I never pleased; I never tried
It seemed I must be dead inside
Never got near enough third base,
That plate of stupefying strudel cakes,
Wedding processions;
Where I missed with the rice,
And cursing luck, missed it twice;
The bouquets poked me in the eye
And tin can music dragged down streets
Always makes me grimace
Even to this day.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem