Roaming about in three wheels
He has the least of rest;
Bent and shrunk in body
A bulging eye on head
Triangular in symmetry
All nooks, corners and narrow by ways
And red-soil-carpeted village roads
And on the broader highways
Runs despite night or day
This curved and hunch-backed cab.
One who that bothers no time and place,
And having none of those 'high' 'low' notions
You are of noble birth proffering livelihood to
Thousands of poor and have-nots.
A little space will do for him to roll on
And he is the 'resort' of many
Always roaming without rest
On all four zones ever and ever.
Praise the fanciful reason,
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