ilija trojanow (bul/aut) gedichte an unsere überwacher Blow job

He blew the whistle.
He wrote her a letter.  

Angie fell,
in the snow down,
got up quickly,
sent a message,
via smart phone:  

‚It seemed a hard blow’,
she mailed kindly,
‚but’s just a blackmail
to get asylum.  

So don’t worry,
mister president,
we’ll do the blow job
evermore.’