You may drop on their wrinkled
needy palms bales of saliva
Instead of the little offering
they seek off you,
They may be like the bin of your excreta,
And on them the flies may sit like dung
To you, they pest of your riches
But remember,
They are the worthy men
Who waits patiently day and night
By the streets to collect your
fare to heaven
Throw them off your glittering
metal gate
And you shall pay not the fee to
paradise.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem