(continué le poème)

We know of times and its wareabout,

As gone into a blow by drunken souls, 

In time as happiest, enjoying a good Stouts... 

I must have truncated a piece of the poem.

These are my own words and thoughts,

This is what Poet groups do in knots.

My race couldn't become 'White' if needed,

To save my family in a life threatening deed,

 I sure understand like a wrecker ball and its beat.

 Gonghis. 

I see,