The tattooed asshole,
Full of fear glance,
If for champion's title
You are crapping pants -
Sit in the field's middle
The half of an hour,
Not to become killed by
You own kind ones.
Hands, legs safe and sound?
The jaw? The right eye?
Go to the bell tower
And start begging God.
Let you see compassion
In a cell from monk,
Or they'll shoot you down
In your chest and groin.
The tattooed asshole
© Copyright: Елизавета Судьина, 2018
Свидетельство о публикации №118071103643
Свидетельство о публикации №118071103643
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