A turn goes by, and then, in two or three...
Thy board of wooden tiles, to me all done, in points, over fifty.
Double word score...
I want more.
That dreaded draw of the x or z or q or j...
These tiles, all few, will ruin my day.
At the end, the linking words, points are added, then deducted...
Then, by then, in the winner's circle, am I proudly, inducted.
Can you spell and remember definitions of words, from thy brain? ...
Do tired and sleepy heavy eye lids succumb to late hour's, worked up-drain?
Scrabble...
In the end, makes my, incoherency, do I, dare, babble?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem