The house is like a treasure trove of monumental size
Everything from socks to bikes are stored before your eyes
Some are lost forever, as you don't know where they've gone
Lying around in a constant mess, as the cobwebs linger on
Dust and woodlice hang about, the very place your searching
And you are there, with dust filled hair, looking like an urchin
And even if you find that thing you need after some years
The mice have probably chewed it up, and that would end in tears
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem