London jostles with the public,
And the public has qualms with the Capital.
It winces from pressure so high
That those residents speak work of story
Incapacitated by greed of wealth and money.
You are a house-holder reputed to have stolen
Secret after secret, no matter virtue what fulfills.
It times the living language as cockney might hide,
As slang has many connotations of proud nature.
We all conceal what is in our minds,
Like a business so fashioned with pride for country.
Must we finally put down to rest the job in hand?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem