The bags of fun one destroys are nothing,
Gels of the loose change combine to fester
And cost the individual an arm and leg.
The funny men of the decade are murder
As the devolution of this one nightmare
Is like itself the evoked one, the innocent one;
So inventory is not enough.
The bags of inventions are about,
Coins detract from iron as the days go by,
Passersby wander a lesser time,
Passengers passively work to worship
Inside an anatomy,
And then bags of fun.
Fun is about with passages to combine,
My asking is my answer,
As my worst luck abducts the fortune.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem