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

And exclaiming:

-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

kept walking

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.