Poem 336

In plain words

all this scandal has arisen, Kṛṣṇa, my little one, my son! I will tie You to the mortar; give up these pranks of Yours now, forget them, Kṛṣṇa! Your whole mouth smells of butter, You are not even the size of a fingernail, child; through the whole village, mischief and nothing but uproar