I'm Not Crusoe
Could not have survived Crusoe's labors;
Am not that fit.
Without speech for years
The rescuers would push me aside:
'He'll never be back,
'Although we'll bring him in.'
An island west of South America,
A plantain in my ear;
Bed are like The Rack-
I want to sleep standing,
Preferably in a hole;
Drinking water, not bathing, because
It doesn't work like that.
Washing spreads sores, I discovered.
Later, when the buboes spread
In London,
Tormented so many people,
People true to the Empire;
Loving silent speech and wailing
Through the night.
poem by Stan Petrovich
Added by Poetry Lover
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