Billy's gone to meet his Bookie;
The odds aren't in his favor.
The Omniscient will ask the questions:
"Where's the money, Billy.
The pennies from the multitudes
That built your mansions,
Clothed and fed you,
Lavished yours in comfort and light,
While my children around the world
Died from hunger, disease and war.
Open the ledgers, Billy.
This is your final accounting."
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem