Judge Not Poem by Yiro Abari High

The swathe of his trunk and limbs are:
Long, slim cylinders to the wrists,
Baggy prongs to the ankles
And a woolen barrel to the waist
Are adorned diffidently at best
Always with millions of creases
I don't want to get dismayed
Judge not by these, I say

The scorching sun's her roof
Her tenacity's weatherproof
Famished and haggard in rags
'Tomatoes, tomatoes, ' she shouts
The wages of her toil, measly
How she gets through is a mystery
Judge not by these, I say
For she boasts a healthy womb
From which a king comes forth

Judge not by the eyes I say