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The very day Bob Dylan dies,
princes will turn into toads,
and all blacks are dyed in white.
The moon girds its armor loads.

Bourbon will get the taste of mud,
Whores will grimly close their lips.
Ponytails will all be cut.
Even the Eiffel tower flips.

What they sell, is exploding cigars.
The Ice Age gets triggered yet.
Women bear monkeys from Mars.

Plenty lampoons on the internet.
They’re smashing all guitars,
no longer for sale they’ll be dead.

For Roland Vancampenhout

About this poem

Translation by Ludy Bührs of a poem in Dutch at the request of the author, who, in his young years owner of a blues café, has great knowledge of music.

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Submitted by ludy_b on July 11, 2021

25 sec read

Coenraed de Waele

Unofficial City Poet of Genth, Belgium. Publisher of many books of poems by himself. more…

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    "Blues" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2021. Web. 3 Dec. 2021. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/104757/blues>.

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