How quaint, Molly-Coddle
never comes in here,
she's perceived things
that aren't.
It's like what is happening to
Chicago...
the 'city of the big shoulders? '
but 'skewed aroun' the waist! '
I don' know if they're still
hog butcher to the world?
The problem is...
they're ill-o-noise.
This modern din,
now shifting in status,
and due to ungainly views,
they say they're
headed as hogs,
to ill-fated pens
of ill-tempored gods?
To be made as hams,
smoked
cooked
and made ready
to eat, they say
for... sheep?
I couldn't say...
there's this duality?
.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem