If I were a witch; I'd cast a spell,
And put an end to lies men tell.
I wouldn't enchant their ****** nose,
But the place from where ***** flows.
I'd raise my wand, purse my lips,
And call the World to witness this,

"When men lie without a flinch
Their ***** shall shorten by an inch
And if they try to spin a tale
Their ***** shall, decrease in scale
And if they raise a deceitful stink
Lo and behold, their **** will shrink
Every time they make up lies
Their ***** will contract in size"

Making a molehill out of a mountain,
Will affect their natural fountain.

And planet Venus in the sky will look bigger than the ***** in their fly.

They will have to altogether give up lying if they don’t want their manhood dying

A Borivali slow,
Was on platform four,
Being young and swift,
With least bit of strain,
I boarded the train.
There wasn't place to sit,
So amidst the uproar,
I stood at the door.

An aged lady of seventy-four,
Indulged us in a tale of yore.
Of a frightful night,
When her entire world,
Was ruthlessly hurled,
Into fear and plight,
Into treacherous gore,
A tale so abhor.

with fine detail,
She narrated her tale,
And had us engrossed,
Our minds embossed,
She was a slave,
Who tried to save,
Her body frail,
Which was put for sale.

"A young girl of thirteen I was", she said
"Physically alive but mentally dead.
I was sold like cattle,
My modesty stripped,
soul ripped,
My insides would rattle,
As I would be led,
To a different bed.

In words I cannot convey,
From where I drew strength one day,
During the dastardly act,
I took my chance and attacked.

I fled the scene,
And ran all day,
Tried to escape far away.


Partially clothed or under a veil,
Being a woman makes you  frail,
We are a prey to beastly eyes,
Unheard are our cries.

My story will make your heart sink,
And force you to think,
While you soundly sleep,
There are women who weep.
Somewhere there is a woman
trying to escape,
From the clutches of victimization and ****. "

When the sun first shows its beaming face,
at the break of a blissful new dawn.
Your birds that exult with elegant grace,
bid farewell to the night that's gone.

Your flowers ornate your vast lands,
of your priceless treasures they boast.
The besotting Kilimanjaro that stands,
dominating your east coast.

You are home to the best precious stones,
the land of gleaming clear waters.
Garnished with skills and strong bones,
you are served by your dutiful daughters.

The soil that expands on your gracious vest,
the equator that cuts your enormous chest,
birds that bear your golden crest,
are a few ideals of your daring zest.

The treasured soil that fills your vast expanse,
the gracious finesse in your every dance.
From Egypt, to South Africa, Nigeria to Kenya,
From the stupefying Sahara to the beatific Victoria.

I love you dear Africa, The land of the wild,
This poem is for you from your little child.

After the funeral, I was sent to heaven.
St. Peter stood at the gates.
“Welcome”, he said, “your sins are forgiven”,
“Go to the Chamber; Jesus waits”.

Jesus summoned me with boisterous mirth,
“How was your short time on Earth?”
“Fairly decent”, said I with a smile,
“Every moment was worthwhile.”

“Starting from the time of my birth,
I did plenty of things on Earth,
I studied hard, acquired a degree,
Got a job and made pots of money.”

Jesus shot me an unhappy stare,
And ordered me to take a chair,
Carefully he opened a slim file,
and scrutinized it for a while.

"You were given the ability to write,
To rhyme, to compose and recite,
You could have been a famous bard,
Like Shelly, Milton & Arthur Ward.
In the quest to earn bread & butter,
You poured your talent down the gutter.
A talented, young Indian Author,
preferred to undergo corporate slaughter.
Should I have written it on stone?
Man doesn't survive on bread alone?
Gifted with wit, spirit and foresight,
You were sent on Earth to write"

Shocked & aghast, I fell to my knees,
"Give me a chance, I beg you please"
"No", he said and refused to relent,
"You have an eternity to regret & repent".

When you're old, weary,
forgetful and dreary,
your grandchild will sit on your lap,
And insists you narrate your story,
before he goes for a nap.
Perch that kid atop your knee,
and tell him your delightful story.

Tell him how you studied biology,
And the science of the body,
And the wonders of economics,
And how to make accounts tally,
Bore him silly with math rules,
And crap you picked up in schools,
how algebra helped you land a job,
And physics helped you convince a mob,
On your first date,
You dined with your certificate ,
And all those sums in calculus,
Helped you during your first kiss,
How law helped you win your wife,
And grammar stopped you from taking your life,
when your spouse and you fought,
accounting rules sorted it out,
Tell him when down on your knees,
You were uplifted by degrees,
When overcome with emotions,
You narrated equations,
Tell him when nights got colder,
Geography gave you its shoulder,
Tell him medicine cures all aches
Including the vacuum of heartbreaks,
And when you're dead in your grave,
And flesh is turning to bone,
While placing flowers at your tombstone,
The Income tax laws will mourn.

A parchment of distant yore,
Stuffed in a bottle, green,
Was washed ashore,
Clear and pristine.

Worded carefully,
Short and concise,
Written ruefully,
By a sailor wise.

"The choir's music in the air,
is drowned by screams of despair.
The freezing water of the Atlantic,
Fills the depth's of the Titanic.
Dread and fear has taken grip,
My heart sinks along with my ship.
Through this worded rhyme,
My love for you will transcend time.
The ship's descent has begun,
T'is the end, Oh dear one"

For a 100 years clear and pristine,
A sailors words washed ashore in a bottle green.

An unintelligible verse,
Is worse than a curse.
A badly worded rhyme,
is a literary crime.

Instead of rhyming ‘bird',
With a word like curd,
Some people are plain absurd,
And will  use lacquered.

Poetry is emotion,
Expressed through lines,
Not word commotion,
Going off like mines.

The rules of grammar,
Have to be in place.
So please don't anger,
The grammarian populace,

By confusing their and there,
And misusing you're and your,
And using any word anywhere,
And thinking your poetry is pure.

Big words make not a poet,
Hyperboles won't add to the meaning,
So when you poeticise please know it,
Short stanzas are more appealing.

Back in the Kindergarden times,
When we thrived on nursery rhymes,
When we were grasping our tables,
And learning morals through fables.

While studying the consonants,
And forgetting our vowels,
We'd mew like cats &hoot; like owls.

When a smile could make amends,
And bridge  gaps between feuding friends.
We would conjure tales in our heads,
And carry no worries to our beds.

When we would join in a chorus and  sing,
Because awkwardness was an unheard thing.

When appearances were an afterthought,
And happiness in wealth wasn't sought.
the nose would never cease to leak,
We'd prance around tongue in cheek.

Toothless grins and scabbed knees,
Were sufficient to charm and please.
With No attempts to please through  flattery,
thumping your friend didn't amount to battery.

Childish mirth and innocent revelry,
is nothing but a distant memory.
So now I chide and mockingly grin,
With hope of reviving the lost child within.

The spooky, eerie feeling grips me,
As I watch Grandpa swinging from a tree.
His body is lifeless, limp and pale,
His hands are fragile and frail.

“Grandpa”, I shriek, “I thought you were dead,
For your funeral mass the first reading I read”.
“Shut up kid”, he says with a frown,
“Do you know how bad it is there down?”

“Down?”  I gasp,”So you made it to hell?”    
“Believe me girl heaven ain’t that swell.”
“Is it hot down there? Do you loathe the heat?”
“Down there kid, I hate the food I eat”.

“Food?”, I exclaim ,”do you still need that?”
“Of course we do you blithering brat”.
“But aren’t ghosts the gliding type all slim and light?”
“Yes kid, but we need energy to scare Earthly folks at night”.    

I gently ask, “What is it you miss most from up here?”
“Is it the TV set, liqueur bottle or fishing gear?”    
“Honestly kid, I miss the food your Grandma would make,
Those sinful crumpets and cookies she’d bake,
those meat pies and curries with assorted spices,
Oh that food would distract me for an hour and half from my Earthly vices.”

“But you never liked her cooking and always criticized this and that”.
“Yes m’dear but I’d still gulp it down and get all chubby and fat,
So pay heed young girl, don’t fuss over your looks and weight,
We men love that initially but later grow to hate,

It’s the food a woman cooks that we remember even when dead,
So ensure you keep your husband always well fed.”

What I really want to know,
Is while her frock flies to and fro,
Have you really seen her knees?

Her toes are an absolute pleasure,
her ankles are fun to measure,
Despite all this fun at leisure,
I'm a stranger to those knees.

She'd rather charm and please,
Tantalize, tickle and tease,
Than show those blasted knees!

And when I tell her so-
She'll display her elbow
and say "They're just the same,
with a different name".

Some day in her eyes, lemon I’ll squirt,
then quickly tear the hem of her skirt
And take a good look at those knees.

He doesn't need Intra Ocular Lenses,
To dismember my defenses.
Without a Stethoscope,
He can hear my heart,
He won't have to take an MRI scan,
To know where to start.
He won't need to inject a syringe,
To romantically unhinge,
My every multiplying cell,
Into a palpitating craze.
He won't need a lubricating gel,
To ****** and amaze.
He won't require to operate
Nor investigate,
Me from head to toe,
To plainly know,
That I'm besotted,
my insides knotted,
My better sense clotted,
In deep rooted feeling,
Of immense love.

When complexities increase in number,
brashly jerking me from slumber,
When dilemma stares me in the face,
dragging me into the modern rat race,
I simply ask myself, what would Holmes do?

When there is a downpour of worries all at once,
forcing me to gaffe about and act like a dunce,
When diabolical questions pop up now and then,
making me ponder how and when,
I ask myself,what would Jeeves do?

If only Mr. Holmes were to be my guide,
and the inimitable Jeeves were by my side,
My remotest feelings to them I'd confide,
without having them rebuke or chide,
because Holmes and Jeeves would know what to do.

While Holmes would take the bull by its horns,
Jeeves would provide against obstacles and thorns,
Holmes would know  what to say,
Jeeves would put in a tactful way,
because Holmes and Jeeves would know what to do.  


So, when headaches and woes come in fleets,
I go in my mind to those London streets,
I consult them with a problem or two,
Because Holmes and Jeeves know exactly what to do.

After a string of my relationships didn't work,
And I had dated **** after ****,
I realized something was terribly amiss,
With the  blokes I was choosing to date and kiss.

So I decided that my standards had to be revised,
And a grand dating checklist had to be devised,
I wouldn't be superfluous about this  list,
Instead I'd cover points that I had hitherto missed.

I will not date a man who is  already dating,
and for whose commitment I'm kept waiting.
I will not date a man who is involved with his ex,
Who turns to her for sympathy & sometimes ***.

I will not date a man who is constantly lying,
Where trust has diminished and is almost dying.
I will not date a man who has been a criminal,
Even if the offense was small and the sentence minimal.

I will not date a man with a violent streak,
Who's ability to control his anger is very weak.
I will not date a man with no career aim,
Who thinks having a physique is cool but a job is lame.

I will not date a man who disrespects his father and mother,
lets face it, if he's mean to them, he wont be nice to any other.
I will not date a man who is abusive and who swears,
Who lacks empathy and who never cares.

I will not date a man who lacks humility,
Who is arrogant, rude and has no civility.
I will not date a man who has been a cheater,
Or a man who is a girlfriend beater.

I will not date a man whose mouth is lined with empty words,
broken promises, shallow tales that he uses like swords,
To cut open my insides and get my defenses down,
only to walk away and never turn around.

Did you see what I just did there?
I will not date a man just because he has glossy hair,
Or just because he has pretty eyes,
because pretty eyes can also tell pretty lies.

I will not date a man who cannot see,
What a flying dragon I am, figuratively,
I am a phenomenally phenomenal woman, that's me,
And I won't date a man who tells me any differently.

I watch the prom Dance,
In an awkward stance,
my friends walk in with dates,
and the excitement Abates.
Alone in a corner,
I mope like a mourner,
With no partner to dance with,
No gentleman to prance with.
Amidst the mirth and cheers,
My eyes fill up with tears.

I rush out into the open air,
And by Jove! I see Voltaire!
With his satirical charms,
He draws me in his arms.
As I sway to the beats,
I'm waltzing with Keats.
Causing my funny bone to arouse,
Enters P.G.  Wodehouse!
Using nonchalant wittiness,
He acknowledges my prettiness.
And then walks in Shakespeare,
Who  wipes away my tear,
And my senses curdle like curds,
As he showers me with words.
While I repress the excited child,
I'm swaying with Oscar Wilde.
I'm rendered helplessly mute,
With his phrases so astute.
With a proposal so verse-y,
I'm serenaded by Shelly  B. Percy.
And before this fantasy can spoil,
I fox trot with  Conan Doyle.

And thus literally seduced,
into putty I'm reduced.
I am platonic-ally smitten,
By the genius of what they've written.
The dating circus can’t make me cry,
because a host of paramours have I.

The moon senses my glee,
And so in him I confide,
He peevishly teases me!
And his candour he fails to hide.
The naughty winds eavesdrop,
And spread the word like fire,
Carrying my secret from the top,
They take it down to the wire!
Soon the scattered clouds asunder;
Join in unison and loudly wonder,
"So this is why her scarlet cheeks,
Convey more than what she speaks,
And now it has widely spread,
the reason why she blushes red.
Like a bright and luminous flame,
She glows at the mention of his name,
If his thought should cross her head,
She is sure to turn crimson red."

With a teasing twitter, every bird,
Hops around & spreads the word,
The flowers animatedly sway,
And scatter my secret away!
Further smeared by the rain,
Over the hills and over the plane,
With nowhere to shroud and hide,
My secret spreads far and wide.
Thus making it widely known,
My heart in rhythmic beating,
Cannot stop itself from repeating,
His name, in an undertone!

To get away from the TV set
and the cursed Internet
I sought refuge among the trees
and lunged in natural aired breeze.
I watched the orange setting sun
And clouds drift by. Oh what fun!

I heard a distant sounding moo
followed by some hullabaloo.
The sound of voices was clear now
they belonged to women, not a cow!
Two young women tall and fair
approached my grassy open lair.

Two young women in floral dresses
with auburn, curled demure tresses
and polished docile English air
having considerable savoir fair,
on the grass beside me landed
and a jewel casket to me they handed.

Trying my best not to sound rude
"Who is it?" I asked and "why intrude?"
One of them took my hand and said
"I have written the book you recently read"
"Forgive me” Said I “to not sound shrewd,
but pray tell me to which book you allude?"

The taller one again; the clear leader
spoke and said "oh dear reader,
my book was written in silent prayer,
the ****** of which you are aware
quotes of which, you cite with flair
I am the author of Jane Eyre."

"Charlotte Brontë" gasped I with glee
has come for a rendezvous with me!
My excitement no bounds knew
when the older one of the two,
who had hitherto watched silently
spoke and thus addressed me.

"I have written on sensibility,
sense,
prejudice, pride and providence.
I have written on layers of the mind
and family ties that never cease to bind.
I covered events both real & farce-y,
I am the creator of William Darcy".

"Jane Austen" said I with fervour
"I am your greatest admirer.
Your lucidity of language and verse
and the way your characters converse
have helped developed my writing style
which previously, I assure you was sterile"

"This is an honour, a considerable one,
But to deserve this tell me what have I done?"
"We are here to give you treasure
to improve your writing in measure"
I motioned to the jewelled basket,
"Is there something in that casket?"

"Does it contain secret notes?
unpublished poems and anecdotes?
maybe a magic potion or spell
That will make me write really well
Does it contain divine mediums
that will help me conjure idioms?"

"No" said Charlotte Brontë,
"It has what you need, not what you want"
I opened the jewel case with ease
expecting to find a set of keys
and so was nearly surprised when
in its interiors I found a pen

"There are no rules to follow
No magic potion to swallow.
Every accomplished writer knows:
there is no secret method to poem or prose.
So do not cloud your mind with fears
and write with blood and tears."

Birds around me began to stir
and the scene before me; to blur.
Was this a mere delusion?
A dream perhaps or an illusion?
"Remember to put pen to paper"
saying this, the women turned to vapour.

I woke up with a nervous start
and a wildly beating heart.
It was nearly breaking dawn;
I may have slept off in the lawn.
If the women were a creation of my mind,
how then in my palm did the pen I find?

She was somber, subtle always glad,
demurely dressed, elegantly clad,
always polite, quick to greet,
very enthusiastic, always upbeat,
graciously poised, placidly calm,
seldom aggressive, always warm,
bluntness never escaped her lips,
her daughter always cradled on her hips,
shy at times, but harsh never,
always in the background, timid, yet clever,
her sorrows, her woes she never expressed,
never displayed that she was depressed,
t'was a shock to all, grief was rife,
when she hung herself and took her life.

If I were a man, I'd be free,
To ask a woman out for coffee.
But I'm a woman, I have to play coy,
And let the fieldwork be done by the boy.

I have to wait for him to make a move,
And only show that I approve.
I have to bat my lashes and display a pout,
And behave like a human sized trout.

When he leans for a kiss, I'll have to push him away,
And blushingly say "not today"
As a woman, society wants me to behave in a way,
To be demure, dignified and flirt in a womanly way.

But you know what, let society go for a toss,
This woman here, is her own boss,
I'm going to be direct and forward,
And if that scares you, move along coward.

I’m not going to sit around and wait,
I'll be the one who'll ask you for a date,
I know I know, guys love the chase,
But hey, I'm not a car, this is not a race!

God knows when you'll overcome your cold feet,
So I'll be direct and very indiscreet,
So if you like me, and I get the hunch,
I’ll ask you out to dinner or lunch.

I have no time to waste in decoding your hints,
Deciphering your mind, your glances and squints,
I'm not Robert Langdon, this is not a Dan brown book,
So when you give me that interested look,
I'm not going to ponder and over analyse,
The mystery behind the movement in your eyes.

And if you happen to reject me and say no,
I promise to take it in my stride,
Because I don't involve my ego,
And let indecisive men hurt my pride,
I am free spirited and emancipated,
And do not particularly care if that makes you feel emasculated.

There was a circuitous girl who had little grace,
But she was demure with a pretty face.
She had never ever been asked to prom,
So she binge watched sappy romocoms.

One day, a good Knight, asked her for a dance,
She leaped up and grabbed the wonderful chance,
She agreed to go with him for a New Years ball,
But it escaped her mind that she can’t dance at all.

The good knight placed his hand on her waist,
and drew her close as they lissomely paced.
He suddenly turned her like a spinning top,
Once twirled, she just wouldn’t stop!

Off she spun, like a merry-go-round,
Upsetting dancers all around.
Windswept like a tornado— menacing,
Her turns were faster than cars in Grand Prix racing.

The good knight, confused and unsure what to do,
Went and helped himself to a piece of chicken or two
While she tossed into a mighty spin,
He went over to the bar and drank all the gin.

Towards the buffet table, she turned course,
Where he sat explaining centrifugal force.
She crashed into the hungry good Knight,
Who collected himself and stood upright.

She stopped spinning and sat quite still,
The knight drew her up with heroic skill.
She looked confused and completely askance.
But our good Knight was also brave, so he asked her to dance.

At the 206 bus stop I patiently wait
For the red bus that's always late.
I have now waited over an hour
And my mood is surely turning sour.

I crane my neck for the glimpse of that bus
Which, when moves makes ruckus.
I am excited by the noise of yonder thunder
Alas it turns out to be a school bus, oh what a blunder.

I'm tired, hungry and even ready for bed
Yet compelled to wait for the bus in red.
If only I had money for a three wheeler
Alas I can't afford it on my income meager.

My patience is put to a severe T-E-S-T
As I stoically wait for the B-E-S-T.
A serpentine queue has now formed
But come the bus its door will be stormed.

My hopes rise upon the sight of something red
Alas it's a bus of another route instead.
The hunger has traveled from stomach to mind
Can someone please a solution to this delay find?

At the 206 bus stop I patiently wait
For the red bus that's always late!

Near the bust stop, around the bend,
where the bus route comes to end,
Is a lane with buildings replete,
the best of the lot being Paraclete

With round Victorian window panes,
and 16th century structural frames,
It is like a manor on a London street,
This beautiful empyrean Paraclete

Coated in demure pink and white,
and shades of cream, very slight,
a structure of cement and  concrete
Its a divine abode, this Paraclete!

And named after the Holy Ghost,
this building, is home and host,
To a boy, who made my life complete,
He is my advocate, my Paraclete!  

When I sought God and asked for aid
He sent me the best he had made
the boy, from across the street
a resident of divine Paraclete!

But how could it possibly be?
For this boy was younger than me!
Why would God, send to my aid
A boy who 3 years after I, was made?

God replied "it took time to create
for you, a well suited mate,
It took a while to complete,
Your protector, guide and Paraclete"

When all courage had been lost
And my heart turned to frost
my faith had nearly come to deplete
But was revived, by the boy from Paraclete!

To maintain peace and sound reflexes,
Sever every possible type of nexus,
With ex’s friends & friends exes,
Regardless of their ***'s,
Above all, consider your cerebral plexus,
And know that wounds get infectious,
If unhealthy connections are maintained with one’s own exes.

We've heard of a woman's grace,
And romantic fables of her charm.
But delve beneath the surface,
And stir waters outwardly calm.

A woman, if pleased is divine
And will do plenty to prove her grace.
when angry she'll turn serpentine
And descend like a meteor from space.

She’ll be sarcasm personified,
Every sentence riddled with a taunt.
You’ll be slandered and vilified,
And derided as shabby & gaunt.

When pleased she’ll be friendly and chatty
And lure you to reveal your fears.
But soon she’ll turn vile and catty,
And delight in your failures.

She won't leave a chance to ridicule
And bring up things you’d rather forget.
She will attack with every feminine tool,
And force you to mull and regret.

And when you've had enough of her satire
And try to give her a piece of your mind,
She will breathe out tons of fire,
And to crisp she'll burn your behind.

So don't **** a woman to show
Her ****** and vindictive side
Be a gentleman if you don't want to know
That Far from being Jekyll, she's Mr. Hyde

She mulls over a multitude of dresses,
While she curls up her auburn tresses.
Into a heap of satin she'll wriggle,
Tossing the attires with a nervous giggle.


Every gown whether satin or lace,
Does not seem to bring out her face.
With brash impertinence the gown would divulge,
Her every flaccid protruding bulge.


The corset with all it's tightening,
Wasn't portraying her as placid and mellow,
Her teeth despite the whitening,
Seemed stained and yellow.


But the woman failed to realize,
That her beauty dwells in her eyes,
It escaped her mind ,
that she was one of a kind.


While women eyed her with envy,
Men awed her comely grace,
Her mind was clogged with a daunting frenzy,
That settled upon her pretty face.


Not once did she look up and observe,
The glances aimed at her with animated verve,
She was down with the spreading bout
Of venomous self doubt.


An untoward imbecile,
With no particular talent or skill,
Showered her with a word of praise,
Causing the heart to notch up its pace.


She longed for his fervent gaze,
A gratifying praise,
She needed him to validate her worth,
Only then would she be filled with mirth.  


She had herself to blame,
This pigeon headed dame,
Who was so blind to see,
That she was as beautiful as beauty can be.


To all the lovely women I know,
Keep in mind that men come and go.
Let not their vileness blind you from seeing,
How gifted you are you terrific human being.

Can someone tell the folks upstairs
That their floor is my ceiling.

They stomp about,
Scream and shout.
In a fleet,
They drag their feet.

They tap dance in their hall,
And cause my crockery to fall.
While they boisterously shake,
I'm forced to stay awake.

They slam their doors,
and I settle scores,
By returning a 'thud',
Which goes unheard.

And finally when they clamber to bed,
I thank my stars and think in my head,
Those noisy wrecks,
Are a pain in our necks,

I would have loved them more,
Had they lived on another floor.

I sense those cunning eyes,
hidden beneath a mask of lies.
I shudder at your menacing grin,'
that outwardly covers your sin.
A sin you claim to have forgotten,
has resurfaced and made every memory rotten
O, tell me my merciless friend,
whom does your conscience defend?
You, who were supposedly smart,
does your soul not confront your heart?
How could you wrench out my heart
when our relationship was about to start?
You are like every other bloke,
you've treated my feelings like a joke
Did my thought not cross your mind,
did your better sense turn blind?
What did you fall for? her looks? her charms?
What were you thinking, when you took her in your arms?
Did you not realize you were breaking my trust,
with your momentary lapse of lust?
when you took off your shirt?
Did you realize I would be hurt,
Do you believe in karma? I know I do,
and I'm sure someday it will get you.
You have ripped out my heart, with your claws,
You have chewed my between your jaws,
you have crushed me beneath your paws,
With your act of deceit,
You heartless cheat,
You have won, I've lost, I face defeat.

I am seated atop a salon chair,
Come hither merciless thread,
And rip out my upper lip hair,
Until my skin turns crimson red.
Pluck it all out,
From the corners of my mouth,
To the point below my nose,
While I hold a sturdy pose,
Or display a duck-faced pout.
Pluck it out from below my chin,
pierce all areas of my skin,
Shape my eyebrows; overgrown,
show the world, parts of my face they've never known.
Be a good thread and shred,
All unruly growth off my face,
Before it grows and spreads all over the place.

I walked into my house,
expecting my senses to be aroused,
by the aroma of baking bread.
so it surprised me, when instead,
of having my senses tickled by,
the delicious scent of apple pie,
or the aroma of food in the making,
or rice on the stove and turkey baking,
I walked in, instead, to an awful smell,
the source of which I could not tell.

I ventured to the garbage bin,
to see if the source of the stench came from therein,
but the bin was empty and sans any stink,
so I walked over to the kitchen sink,
to inspect and see what it could be,
But sink was spotlessly clean,
glistening almost with silvery sheen.
So I went off to see if the food had gone bad,
food in the fridge, if I may add.

But the food looked splendid so to speak,
it clearly wasn’t causing the house to reek.
So what then, was casing my flat,
to smell of a dead rat?
The toilets was where I ventured next,
to see if my kids had left them wrecked,
But they were clean and pristine,
cleaner than my face has ever been.
So I checked the rooms, to see if I had forgotten,
an half eaten plate of food that had gone rotten.

But alas, the house, to my dismay,
resolutely refused to betray,
the source that caused my home,
to smell like a sewer, from cellar to dome.
Aghast and defeated I called out to my wife,
who is the Sherlock Holmes of my life,
"Oh dearest wife of mine,
there's a stink sending down my spine,
a nasty and distasteful shiver,
like I'm drowning in the Mithi river".

"I cannot stand to stay indoors,
inhaling this vile smell anymore"
"Darling" she said sounding like a lark,
"While the cause of the smell may appear mysterious and dark,
the matter is quite simple and plain,
this smell of which you complain,
is not of rotting eggs or meat,
it’s the smell you've bought in with your feet."
With that, out of the window, she tossed my shoes,
She would have tossed me instead if given to choose.

She then scrubbed my feet with sandpaper
and made me less hideous and more dapper.

On the platform rolled the morning train,
I arched into position like a predator on the prowl,
I jumped into the rake and sustained a sprain,
and like a wounded dog began to howl.

I bought myself to stand and staggered towards an empty seat,
as hundreds rushed through the compartment door,
I dint get a seat, but space enough for my feet,
and that's when my phone clattered onto the floor.

I dived into the mammoth crowd,
and began to ***** unsuspecting toes,
Several people yelped out loud,
and i sustained a few hard blows.

Wounded and abashed i almost gave up the search,
when the phone came into my hand,
with relief i grabbed it amidst a jolt and lurch,
but soon realized I couldn't bring myself to stand.

I sat crouched on my fours,
and soon developed knee sores,
The crowd was so large, I couldn't squeeze through them all,
and to my horror, other phones began to fall.

Soon, we were quite a gathering, all perched on our knees,
merrily discussing the Lokpal bill and the Cricket match in West Indies,
We were soon forced to balance on a single toe,
as the crowd began to grow even more.

After an uncomfortable half an hour,I brought myself to stand,
with delicate ease on the platform I managed to land.
Fighting against the oncoming crowd i pushed through with a shove and ****,
dusting myself here and there I made my way to work.