I am a poor man.
The evil share gave me a chest from goryach,
In it both will and bondage, here and I RUB from a shoulder.
And the weather is very angry, I will not find my distance,
And in a dream I dream of a Blizzard, drives in that my trouble.
Sometimes when I dream, in the sun I go bolder,
But usually I miss everything, and I ask you to go mean.
There on the bottom of the casket, splashing my tear
I will ask the gray-haired old man, let the storm strike in the night,
Can I close the casket to her, I can calm my pain,
The happy couple, the sun I'll run to hug.
On a clearing to frolic, with a breeze, warmth in the shower,
There I'll be born again, run in a negligee.
If only the old man had everything in his chest for nothing,
Could so simply smile, took-would will for a Nickel.
I took a little in addition to happy days, tell me how.
But now I'm paying more, I don't know, I'm poor.
Nicholas Horn.
02.01.2020 g
14.55