He had, as Shakespeare said
at last he'd had it.
He closed the book to make
as clean a sweep as he could do.
It would, he hoped, clear up the ache
allow him access to his favourite brew,
but then, he slammed three hundred pages
half of the volume, down with a loud bang.
And saw too late (it's how our brain engages) ,
the spider who was there, scout of a spider gang.
From the remains he made a postage stamp,
serrated, flat and pregnant with strong glue,
then used his tongue, it was a trifle damp
and sent his sorrow to the town of Timbuktu.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem