There once was a poet named Shepherd,
he had spots like the African Leopard.
once a year he partakes
of two huge Kobi Steaks
and he likes them well-salted and peppered.
As an aid to help with the digestion
he has followed for years a suggestion
of an aunt who preferred
her tomato juice stirred
there was potency in it, no question.
Rumour has it they brewed their own grog,
some would call it the hair of the hog,
and the proof is he bites
just as well as he writes
and of life's every year keeps a log.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem