They stay beneath the copper wires
Fixing the deflated tires
The smell of oil besieging them
Like a poltergeist inducing mayhem
They wake up nights contorting
Their spanners and their turnscrews
Their busy minds aborting
Cognate and important news
They could pick their profession up
And throw it to the wind
But they just pick a coffee cup
And these very thoughts exscind
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem