Tables are piled with logos,
And there are heavy metal tankards,
With bowls dressed in gold,
This tavern is a table of horrors.
My feet are celebrating in
Bright laughter.
I am marching inside,
With diets and habits of mad men,
Common mistakes are beds
For the blooming flowers.
A thrifty boy has appealed to me,
And my madness centres on his food,
Held by his flighty thumbs,
Dribbling juices issue and bind.
Tables are tramping with fright,
Alive and tricking, with food on the plates,
Composers gather to play the music of the Hells.
Food, food, and more food,
Water can sustain these parties of the reddish-brown
Leather.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem