O! that I fetch dry the sea
And the fishes there in be mine
I'll sit in my dining room over cups of tea
Crossing my legs and counting money all the time
How prosperous I shall be seen
When I make all my nights be day
How great to paint black my skin
I become black beauty and black body's mate
To the grave-marriage-proposal of vanity
He gave out his time's hand
His bent thoughts to achieving nothing but futility
Made 'out of bounds' to him fruition bided
And now success to him is a ferry-tale
Cos changing the unchangeable he tried to hail
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem