With a posture of respect
He receives some applause for the gesture
The declamation has come to the end.
Audience rises up and shake hands
Obviously, he is the vanquisher

Waiting for the announcement day
No doubt exists, who is the chief
Indeed he knows, but he fears a theft.
The day comes, the list on the board
The poet is about to see what he did not expected

He reads carefully, looking for his name.
Feeling failure instead of success
he runs away, full of anger and hate.
Hide in a room with idiots that say:
"Congratulations" in a sarcastic way

And with a devilish grin
he turns around, with a smile
Waiting for the sun to sleep
and reach his point of dead
The poet is about to spout his last verses

With words of hate and pain
he is almost finishing the show.
He reaches the sharp knife
To prepare the bloody night
changing it from black to red

He will make an exception for tonight.
Transformed from poet to painter,
with a thin brush, he opens the door.
He founds the arbiter on her bed
and waits for the act to take life

She is awake, with a knife on his fatty leg.
Revenge has come to chase her.
And in a heinous act
the room is painted with blood-red.
The Masterpiece is finished. The judge is dead

The Poet is done, no applauses to hear this time.
No awards to be stolen again.
He finish with this sweet verses:
"Sweet Revenge, Sweet Revenge
Indeed you know I'm the best,
If I'm not, Tell me you are mistaken"