THE POET THAT RECITES SPITTING
Walking through the Espolón promenade, in Burgos
From up to down
From the Provincial Council
And Main Theater
Until the Arch of Saint Mary
And back to start from the Arch of Saint Mary
Until the Main Theater
And Provincial Council
The Great poet united verses
Spiting below each line
So that people would be well followed.
Each of the wings of his bronchitis
Felt on the trunk of a banana trees
Or on some of the tiles of the walk
Well, the Poet spat so much on his side
How to the front
Wrinkling the nose.
The scene was seen that he enjoyed happiness
And it was his cause
As passersby laughed
Or people boasting against him.
Tanning of sputums
Giving the verse in gale or pledge
To this man or that female
That they lowered its value
Or diminished its importance
Or estimate, exclaiming:
-It’s a sp Poet’ sputum.
-It is a spit in Verses
Degenerating from its true origin.
-He is a bronchial Poet.
He makes verses with the sputums
Poet of Poets
He coughed and spit like a king
That ensures his reign
Soaking with the tongue
The spit on his palate
To keep them
For inmemorial time.
All in all, the Poet
Obstinate, determined not to give
To demands of the people
What they demanded:
-Poeta, stop spitting
And recite a poem to us as it is due.
When passing through the music temple
He lifted his neck and spat at them
Falling sputums on the head of a bald man
That he was sitting
On a bench of the walk
Close to the temple
Looking like a sea fennel
In his head
Leaping the Lord of Poets on his legs
Gesturing he with hands in the air
-You’ll be a fucking Poet!
It is believed that he is throwing leashes to the hawks
Or plasters to the skull.
The Poet, without making a sack
And, at the same time, reciting
Embellishing the Espolón promenade
Giving to it a poetic character
With the charm of his verses
And his sputums.