To God be the glory,
Who has given me this rare grace.
He made me so rugged like a Mack lorry,
To persist for long in the ‘book-race'.
For hours, I've been here,
Tiredness, I never feared.
But like the day's headache is night,
The only source of my fright
p*ss the bell in my stomach
Which expression is still being masked.
As soon as it rings
All its lying birds get on their wings
And every other thing follows its tune.
May be I should continue
Before it drives me to the kitchen.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem