Words get around
The faster the smaller the place
Is, where it brews in gossipy mouths.
Many love to savor the pickle
Made from the snatched honor
and jealous chillies.....
Many blow the piquant flavor
Far and wide with their genius craft.
They feel free to add whatever ingredients
They like to make the stuff grand saucy.
After all, freedom of speech has to be of some use!
They are like themselves.
Their genetics call for a research.
Looking into their DNA may open up
A French window for Information Technology.
Maybe their grey matter is not as sharp as their tongue!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem