When It Hits The Fan
H
Herbert Nehrlich
0
Altın Yaprak
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.
Bu şiiri puanla
Henüz puan verilmemiş