There is a parish confessor,
(An absent-minded professor)
Who sits all day on his cold flat
Butt, reading enormously fat
Books, and I swear he never looks
Outside, but dwells in household nooks
With scraps and tiny chicken bones…
At night, he makes such dreadful moans
The DEAD arise and volunteer
To sing him lullabies for fear
Of waking Lucifer himself!
(Beside his Bible on a shelf,
A pretty picture book complete
With pretty girls all nice and neat)
“This professor cannot sleep
Because he is not counting sheep! ! ! ”
True, spirits squabble, but they take
Each volume, burn it, and then rake
Away the ashes, one by one,
Because THAT is how it is done.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem