He worked his strenght out though
Combination desire’d drowned on him
He worked the day out sunningly
Too hot to scream the horn of tiredness
But kept bending on and on
The concave glass stood odd on his deep face
They lavished the forename beneath the space
No ach of sigh whatsoever from the liberated sources
Weather does smiles heartily on those
That caught the glimpse
They’ve cheffed down only the roosting patch
Neither purified way to sequence thought
But addicted agony administered as to
Audiblised their hears cogently
Tattoo stood stinking still
But smooth on rough edges;
Fatigue streaks descents away the spine
Oh! Am I running late the summer
I could see cloud snowy towards
Different painted styles of art when
Boarding on a one way street
Who could call for a winky ride?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem