I think that I shall never see
A beast as loathsome as a flea.
A flea whose hungry mouth consumes
All the blood that it exhumes.
A flea that makes me scratch all day
And irritates in every way.
A flea that gets into my hair
And makes me scratch 'til I am bare.
Poems are made by fools like me.
But God should not have made the flea.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem