Patina is this ballerina,
just as rusty as an old nail,
when she moves,
there are no longer Per wets,
but many moves to her groves,
and sometimes slower than a snail,
she would only be intoxicating,
if I had a dozen pints of ale,
she does give it her all,
when her bones creak,
then her legs go week,
it pains me to see her fall.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem