I walk down the filthy streets of the Bronx.
They want my money and they want my soul.
I pull a tissue from my pocket to wipe the soot from my burning eyes,
and 8 red pills fall to the ground, They sparkle under the filthy neon haze
I move on, unaware of my loss.
In an instant, a shadow darts from out of the darkness, claiming the booty and
disappearing into the filth.
Tonite, he may believe he is in ecstasy!
but in fact, he will never be constipated again.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem