Violetta, accompanied by her vintage viola,
and with vocal vivacity, sang of violets and violent vendettas,
victorious viceroys and virtuous virgins.
One vastly vanquishing day, though,
she lost the vivid evocative value of V
and could not longer utter vuh.
Blithely she brightened, bothered no more,
as she borrowed a banjo
to beat out ballads and the blues
of beasts and belles and billy goats,
and her favorite insect, the bee.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem