Freelers of hatred everywhere,
Lying on a huge heap of jealousy,
Transported by a stout strenght of betrayal,
With its attendant smell of man’s inhumanity to man,
That not even a million sigh can brush away.
This world is highly unkempt.
Trickles of dust abound everywhere,
Polluting the clean air of fair play.
Not everybody is guilty though,
But all must die now from err pollution.
This is wickedness wrongly kept.
This world is really wicked.
Tricksters of love abound everywhere,
Outweighing their own very thousand.
A formally warmth love has now grow cold,
With its lovers dying of pnemonia,
Making a former hunter the hunted.
‘World’;this world is the worst hatred.
Everything is just unkempt
Where do I start from?