That which I hate
I miss very much,
That electric, sharp,
Prickly touch;
Wish I could can her,
Pickle her,
Put her in a hutch.
Get her out
When I want her,
Need her, and such;
Abuse HER, not she
Me
I hate her
Till she’s gone
Then I’m the one who’s messed up
And got it all wrong
That itch I hate—
I miss very much.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem