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This poem is taken from PN Review 14, Volume 6 Number 6, July - August 1980.

Greed (translated by Robert Garioch) Giuseppe Belli

    When I see aa the fowk that bide intill
this warld, growin fouthie and mair rank
and aye mair yaup fir gear, wad fill a stank
like Ocean, we nae boddom, nivver fuill,

    I say: blin hird, stowe siller in the bank,
pu wires, fash throu the day, loss sleep, faa ill.
Maister Auld-faither, syne, snooves owre yer sill
wi's muckle heuk, and whangs clein throu yer hank.

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