“It is time to make hay, love’s a’brim,
Though no sun shines a son’s lines no whim!
Let our stars spin together,
for fair future we’ll weather
when Sir loin lies out on a limb.”
“Your a wit”, she replied, teasing him,
“or a twit, more beside, if from chim-
panzee Pansy descends,
ova comes and rules bends,
stimulation new nation may hymn! ”
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem