Small boy, plump and round,
How much can i get, many a pound.
This as such, would be his vow,
Everyday, his conciense didn't a bow.
Wise plump old fellow,
Don't take it over,
The required amount.
It will be game, in
under a second.
The question tongue,
Into salvation, open.
Out came a screech,
Of a dying child.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem