Of Salvadore the Celery King I sing.
Illiterate in Lewiston, he'd wander,
so I'm told, into the ladies' john
and, barring ladies, not suspect a thing.
But when it came to celery, he was king.
And when he died, the Idaho Daily Sun
said: Salvadore the Celery King Moves On.
The celery hung its head, remembering.
Sometimes I think I'll wind down Lewiston Hill
(where winding up and winding down's the same
except for purpose), enter past the mill
and, turning to face the crowd, announce my name:
"Gary, son of Dom the son of Salvadore
the King, whose throne I've come to claim."
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem