Like mythological ram, crossbow in arm,
I aim and maim the evil I see.
Every morning these big arse flies,
That now I hold in my truthful glee.
Disgusting but delicious methinks,
If fried with leftover puja ghee.
There will be need for chants,
To send its soul to the land of the free.
Yes mainly for research, they have a grant,
The Americans are crazy about it.
I'm worried about how they'll react,
If the fly spirit tells on me in a fit.
My tea is getting cold, I'm getting old,
Where is the old kingdom that I had.
After retirement I talk to myself,
And the general consensus is, I'm mad.
I may bite, but not in spite,
In playful mirth and cheer.
They whisper he's mad, it's sad,
Thus in fear people don't come near.
Thus said a chap, there's a gap,
In the thinking and doing of men.
So I go, where the mountains have snow,
Sit and meditate often.
This my world a fancy whirl,
Of confusing thoughts a mess.
When I'm gone, the fabric torn,
Then they'll see what's less.
