I smile and smile
A tool at my bosom
That makes me walk a mile
Away from my lowest bottom
I don't whine and cry
That would make me an old song
Which loses taste with any passing season of a fly
And so I realize that I am not a burnt gong
I laugh and laugh
When a calamity thinks me pity
Worrying glamorizes stuff
And adds nothing but thoughts unwitty
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem