I admit, I lie and cheat,
my goody two shoes,
haven't fit since I-
was a small child.
My last year of university-
taught me more,
than poetry and my,
snobby French speak.
The local frat house parties,
brewed rebels in a
vat of homemade moonshine.
Just like Grandpa did.
It was March,
and the oak trees,
began preening their-
leaves and camilla
blooms for the
seasons that lay ahead.
Oh, how I remember
that Friday night.
Amazingly how a-
pickled mind recalls
a bag of sins so easily.
God and his bag of tricks!
His name was Charlie,
and he invented perfection.
Looking back, the red dress,
I wore was a walking ad
for pure smut.
When I sobered up,
I gathered my dirty laundry,
and one hell of a hangover and
left my morals on the night stand.
I still like Vodka,
red dresses,
and God.
For some reason,
I stopped speaking French.
It sounded vile,
ever since that night.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem