Camping in the Scottish Moors
Gave me a lot of time to brood
Of my actions against Nature
With the sadness I whimpered
As I saw a Chainsaw in the distance
My fear boiled into anger
At the woodcutter I ran out
And gave him a Mighty Clout
How dare he hurt nature
And proclaims his deeds with such stature?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem