Emily, oh Emily, my Emily
how I love thee
for years I read your poems
by warm glow of kerosene light
living alone with no electricity
deep in the woods of Tisbury
all went well until one day
I learned that after you died
and you no longer had any say
publishers of your writings
did edit your poetry to fit
the “proper” form for poems
little did people know back then
that your published works they read
were not your neat poetic essence rare
but contrivance of effete men debonair
who felt your poems needed certain correction
as they raped you with their egocentric erection
but, as time went by and lettered society evolved
and women began to make their presence tell
a publisher published your angelic words untouched
and threw those who raped you into literary hell
Emily, oh Emily, my Emily
we continue to explore your virgin birth of form
as your immortal children grow into Internet maturity
and offer all who wish to know your original poetry
an orgasmic sense of your timeless love for society
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem