Thou still swing in palms of others
And cease not to wee wee on backs of mothers
With endless tears when on shoulders of fathers
Enjoying the freedom before your hair turns grey

No words demand thy need but cries
Then the germination of voices that luck no lies
Becoming a teen, restless spies
Who doth explore ere their old age

The grey colour awaits for your hair
That graduates thee for self good care
For thou then art wise on life's voyage stuck nowhere
Till you find the Gray hat that symbolize long life

A pool of tales your head shall be
Around the evening fire, embarrassing the linkled face of thee
In a ring of offspring that loves to hear but does not agree
Thinking old man's words are jokes of the day

Laugh not upon looking at Gray-haired fathers
For thou still swing in palms of others
And cease not to wee wee on backs of mothers
Yet have no idea of what it takes to be wise.