Iron-Tipped Poem by Ayatullah Nurjati

A pile of worn-out scrap metal plunged into the sky
Wrinkled his forehead, furious and a little bit red
The sun that sustains it will gradually recede
Witnessing the dull blue beauty—wrecked
Disorientation, axle, coupling and accessories attached to it regarding the black dagger
His mustache is no longer scary but looks peaceful
I'm like a thin kris—drain
Because I can't find a unanimous determination—desperate
Ah it's just an illusion for a tie car
Without a pile of iron that is recycled, smelted and smelted, it would not be possible for all of this to exist
Oplet, helicak, tram are good enough to regenerate
A cloud of sweat still doesn't make the body chaotic
And don't forget the rickshaw, the ontel bicycle is a witness to the times that are said to be thugs
The plagiarism tire has droopy lips because of the dictator's pretentiousness on the motor orator
I'm like a nipple that is flicked by a naughty coquettish girl
Well then, how about a two-faced television, a deaf cell phone and a sliver computer?
All of them except bullets, munitions, missiles, grenades, atomic bombs are iron tips