Classic Poem

As long as you've got inherited provisions stored in your cellar,
go ahead and look hungry,
play at being poor to be chic.
When you tire of the Parthenon and Notre-Dame,
fine, go on to lanterns, Mount Fuji,
Hiroshige, Harunobu, Basho, Buson,
throw in Taiga, back to Sesshu,
praise the blank paper.
Pick, as you please,
tanka or haikai.
But I, who know the thing about your cellar,
won't join your playing at being chic.
You may tap me on the shoulder,
but I won't feel good.
With your wooly hands
you may tug at me
and try to seat me on the Great Road to cheap instant Enlightenment,
but I'll have to excuse myself.
You see, like those fellows in the Kojiki ,
I just like to shuffle about in the sun;
to tell you the truth,
— Japon, Japon, Japon, Japon, Japon —
ah, you're too noisy.