Death has gripped my heart like a vice
Squeezing out every last drop
Of blood or love
And that type of thing
With every slow turn
Nothing helps like the whiskey and the weed
Well they don't help much anyway
Not in times like this
And not for this type of thing
By now the floor is covered in dirt and blood and what's left of the whiskey
And the love is gone too
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem