Raucous laughter filled the room.
As mum chased him with a wooden spoon.
The little boy spoke too soon,
as his mother cornered the pint-sized goon.
Don't mess with your mother,
Lest you regret it all round.
Don't cuss your mother,
You'll never live it down.
If you are a pint-sized grommet.
Rewards as you sing her a sonnet.
But you'll see twelve blue moons come and go,
before mum lets you cuss as you grow.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem