spinning a head, i go off with the dead.something wants me to come with it, speak words.tell me the theory of my good times.the women whine and bus tables.lest im able, i wont be up, and they know this, tin cup.do not do me a favor by calling a publisher and telling them how good i am.they already know...............slam.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem