If newspapers spread what use bed-sheet?
What use vehicle with a pair of feet?
Small is my footprint's tread,
What fuss is all this greed?
Comes when time, bare handed must I quit.
Drop by drop still it fills,
No one knows when it spills,
Platitudes feeling good, we repeat!
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Tongue-in-cheek | 03.07.15 |
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem