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