Poem By RACHNA PAL
Well let us see now who I am,
a mix of traits, no doubt, but Ma'm
we cannot help what we are given,
by which we naturally are driven.
I am now tempted to present
myself as someone quite content,
with who and what he is at that,
(please don't mistake me for a hat) .
You know, that fellow Ollie Sacks?
It's often mentioned what one lacks,
he does explain it rather well
he looks inside the patient's shell.
Back to the current subject matter
though one can learn much from the latter,
I shall, listed by preference
in order that it all make sense,
put numbers to the deadly sins,
it's logical that one sin wins,
if you my scrumptious little Belle
should be turned off by what I tell,
I could, in very little time
commit a small but helpful crime
and re-arrange them just to suit
I, then, would go and get my flute
and court you with a serenade
that may (God help me) just persuade
that analytic hemisphere
to pass things in a cavalier,
and human gesture to its twin
which, in itself is a small sin.
My aim, in case you did not grasp,
is not to shock you so you'd gasp,
I want you to relax your rules
for one who thinks of you and drools.
The numbers are, as you will see
as clear as numbers tend to be.
There is the number they call one,
quite fitting for this aging Hun,
it is of course a crucial must
but number two is filled with frust,
three may just serve as trusted guide,
though not in girth, thus four is wide.
Once eaten, lazy is the moth,
it wears the five stitched to its cloth.
Second to last as six, is Jones
it's lusting after gold and thrones.
The worst is number seven, truly
which, in itself is somewhat wooley,
related to the six, no doubt
and green and spindly, never stout.
So here you have it, sweet Raquelle
I trust you like the light Moselle,
it is intended just to please
just like the beautiful heartsease.