A man with a woman's clothing
Sitting and waiting on her efforts
With little or nothing to afford
In upkeep or house keeping
Except his burdened little frame
Always asking and not giving
You are not a man
Simply an imbecile
A hungry fellow sitting alone
As the children waits on their mother
To pick the piece of little fragments
Lest they all die from hunger
The imbecile that sits at home
With eye like a flying vulture
Ready to spring on the spoil of others
As you proudly move round the house
Searching in every corner
For food cooked by the helpless woman
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem