The story of my uncle Fritz
is made up of so many bits
it started with the age of zits
then followed fifteen rowdy kids
who played with strangers, getting nits
and in the morning ate hot grits.
He drove a car named Opel Blitz
and crashed it, giving him the shits
he's dead but the description fits.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem