He was a projection artist, a King on dramas
scene. He was lean and he was handsome, he
was cool and he was mean.
His eyes were brown his skin was tan. He was a boy, he was
a man, and I had hoped someday he'd give a damn
to find out who it is I am.
But Hell's still pretty far from cold and both of us are
growing old. Oh anger's such a heavy load.
Will he ever find his heart of gold?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem