When It Hits The Fan Poem by Herbert Nehrlich
When It Hits The Fan
Who of you clever poets will
hand me the recipe right now
to cure the malady that makes me ill,
it only takes a trifle of know-how.
You see, the fan is going round and round
and much excreta hit its silver blade,
foul odours and weird colours still abound,
I have been waiting for the stench to fade.
It seems that newly-pooped cacatum comes
out of the source that was its origin
I'm sitting here and twiddle my two thumbs
and wonder, modestly, if I can win.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/24/2024 2:30:37 PM # 1.0.0.1119
Herbert, I don't want to be invasive but I promise if you need someone who will read an email this much I can promise in an area where I can probably promise very very little. I hope this too shall pass. Peace, Bill Grace