Rest my case
I can feel the stench
It stinks
In my hand a stick; I stir
Smells worse
Hurriedly I try to cover
Even worse
I stir
Here, there I look for a stone or a lid
To cover
It worsens
Up and down
I rush, run
With stick I move parts
Worse gets worst
I sit, think
It's Dorma; defecate
It must be politics
I therefore
Rest my case; run away
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem