Growing Tums - Poem by Devanshi Khetarpal
I see that rich bloke
On the fancy Browing Street,
And also his servant boy yonder.
He was fat and soak
In gold his hands and feet.
And it made the little boy wonder
In his shrivelled, dry skin
(That was breaking off
And falling on the ground)
Whether it was a previous sin
That hath made his life so rough
That it was harder each day to be around.
Ah! If only the rich bloke could see
That it was him who made the poor lad.
Blasphemous is your growing tum,
That increases by the hour. Don't flee
With the lad's bread. You hath killed his dad.
Tis your ignorance that you held about such a sum.
Comments about Growing Tums by Devanshi Khetarpal
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You