The poetess and her crippled husband
by Abhijit Banerjee
named Wit, mocked at workers
for they wore helmets, hands stiff,
no fancy words to their mouth did fit.
Lover of her own gray,
flummoxed by her own gray;
to aplomb did she yield. Facetious
her life of absconding reality.
Crowned men's crowned words,
panegyric her shield.
Fancies and fantasies; her inked down
thoughts. To a door knob she wrote, while the
worker curved her the door. Cursed be the clerisy,
the public profligates and their obscure poems.
They mock us in blue, while our crimson blood mourns.
Menagerie of alienated tots, like she
and a few more; their effete pens
puking stoic words, dried up passion;
just for another western alien's coffee mug.
Though you and me; wont know his identity,
just another crab of distant shore.
Huh! I say, let her write, for she
can. And let us draw our earthly visions, for
thats what we commoners are for. Our
poems rhyme, our songs sing, our bloods red
and never blue. Its not common man's odyssey;
but a low man's lyric.