There you be
Hard to find, or to see.
Happy ‘mongst the wool and flannel
Like so many of Wilkin's cattle.
Having supped on a meal so rich
Provided by the cat or bitch.
Now not even a hip-hop do you give
As you laze in the folded linen rive.
You're no credit to your ancestors
Who for generations have been infestors.
A mindless critter such as you
Is due no recompense; it's true.
Living the good life in comfort
Never worrying who'll provide support.
You live the Communist life style,
Taking all the while.
Taxing other's ability to pay,
Never mind in which way.
Then, it's according to the need,
Of like minded bloodsuckers, to bleed.
But now I've caught you sone of flea
And your end is certain to be.
As betwixt two thumb nails you find
Yourself at the end of your generation's line.
A bit of pressure, applied just so,
And pop goes your exoskeleton, and away you go.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem