Jill lives in a town with a mill,
She loves wearing clothes with no frill,
Though she doesn't mind them made of twill,
She cooks her foods using a grill.
She often climbs high on the hill,
To fetch fresh water with a thrill.
Today, she felt both tired and ill,
Yet still, the waterdrum must fill.
So, her mum made her go fetch still.
Jill couldn't climb despite her skill.
She felt worse in the windy chill,
And fell, spilling the bucket fill.
The valley echoed loud her shrill,
Her fall was stopped by an anthill.
Now her mum'd pay the clinic bill,
Though doing so is not her will.
Why not fetch from a nearby rill?
Now she's stuck taking a strong pill,
Just God knows when she'll take it till,
For that steep fall was a near-kill.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem