little Jack Horner lay at the coroners
in pieces, a puzzle to try
and they put back his thumbs, and sewed on his bum
and said, 'Damn, there goes our mafia spy'
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
err, so now he's got thumbs on his bottom, I think that this trick is so rotten what if he feels hungry and wants a plum pie I've a worry he'll be forgotten