| |
I'd sent it to you, longhand mostly,
forgetting that you would prefer
the English version, blow me down,
had spent a week to translate all
into the Kaiser's language, on my own.
Same time next year it said, a catch, no doubt
I dreamed to take the worn out path, of course,
the very thought was like a shot of straight morphine,
but you, in sober mood, you ruled the damn thing out.
Well, I shall go each year and sit there sipping ale,
there's cable and the papers full of news,
perhaps some year I shall come back to tell the tale
when she dropped in and said, good day mate, my recluse.
Herbert Nehrlich
|
|
User Rating: |
|
10.0
/10
(1 votes) |
|
|
|
E-mail this poem to e friend