If ever there was a lark,
who wore spectacles at dark,
then put his eyeballs in a jar,
just for laughs and applause.
A titter for a snicker,
a chuckle for a chortle,
Turns ripples to pickles,
Till papa said "son your making to much noise".
Then silence befell,
tomfoolery begone,
our tempest wine became brine,
except for those little laughs that ramble on.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem