how she loved her bootstraps....
polished 'em every day
she'd snap the buggers at you
no matter that you'd say,
'what the Dickens/I love Marlowe,
you've 'risen' but your soul's on furlough'
or words that rang, conveyed the same
....he left her, tiring of the game
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem