you would carry me, upon your heads,
deposit my belongings,
on that wooden scared, apron scent your stove.
wait untill the frenchies hear what you have
planned to do to me, there this loved on buff.
la dernière fois il a été, j'ai parlé à eux,
ils m'ont dit que je n'ai pas eu à jouer en
dehors du bois, où elle meurt empalé sur moi.
they will come and rescue me, and still she sings
her song that all you, came to hear.
Is It Poetry
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/tric-apart-my-art/
