All prunes are plums
all plums not prunes,
the sound of drums
and healthy tunes
is just a side effect, a sign
and its significance benign.
So let your grandpa chew his prunes
between his battle-hardened gums
he's left behind so many moons
and as he sits and gently hums,
he feels the prunes slip down the line
until it's time, for rise and shine.
A poem talking of the guts
would be of interest to us all,
to follow food from mouth to butts
and second-guess potential stall
would be remiss without the plan:
to prunes you ought to add some bran.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem