He's so fictional,
As tall as a hybrid poplar
When the forest cries foul,
He gets spooked
The roots aren't very strong,
He's can't take the heat,
So much cross-examination
The timber is real,
Unlike his false intellectual underbrush
It doesn't get burned,
But the records do
Incinerating his trails,
His path unravels his travels
Oh, how his forest grows like the little wooden boy
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
nowadays all kind of educations, intelligences are hatching on hybrid eggs!