Inside a dark and silent cave
he heard the sounds of pain,
he'd ventured far, a man so brave,
had thought it a small drain.
Without a sound small geysers spat,
the path lost all its friction,
no need to smell an ugly rat
or face post-haste eviction.
The fit was snug twixt tepid walls,
the ground now wide awake,
he'd left outside his trusted balls
in case there was a quake.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
His trusted balls would never quake but caught in a tremor could be a mistake as troglophile living is back and forth and geysers create their own.. up support...