So what, if you've written a poem?!
Somebody says it's lovely,
Someone else says it's awful.
Someone coughs,
Someone groans.
The sun has no idea
About the lovely poem.
Nor does the cat
Nor the mouse.
And the house is still made of stone,
The table- of wood.
But the water
which I drink from a gla**
Is suddenly sweet,
And green as gra**.
I lift it high
Higher than my hair
And fall three times
To my knees then and there,
And kiss the table
and kiss the house!
and search every cranny
for that little mouse.