I wrote a book without an outline,
And it actually came out pretty fine,
And looked quite well.
But one day he fell
And said,
'I would not like to be read'
Then I said,
'You're a book.'
But he replied,
'I feel unwell inside'
'Well how can that be,
You're a book from a tree'
'No, I'm not, ' he cried,
'I feel unwell inside.'
'Probably because you don't have an outline.'
So from that day on,
No book can talk,
Nor can they walk,
Or even listen,
Because they know,
They cannot be livin'
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem