I worked on my walk
when I was sixteen
because I heard it called a waddle.
When I was twenty one
I must've waddled again
because someone tried to make the nickname
'Johnny Waddle' stick.
It did, and those aren't my friends anymore.
When I was thirty five
the waddle was there to stay
an unwelcome wiggle
filthy, stupid strut.
Now, older than I thought I'd get
toenails ingrown, gouty and fungal
I'm beginning again to learn the steps
to the dance that gets you places.
I blame it on the feets
though the waddle is in the hips
and a beautiful woman told me that hips don't lie
but beautiful women do
and now I don't even know what to think.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem