I had closed my door on him He knew why, A thick layer of grime covered him He had not bathed for many years And stank.
He was the poet whose poems People knew by heart, While he did not retain them For more than two days at the most His publishers called for more, They needed him to survive, Therefore, fed him intermittently. He was still alive incognito Battling his wit with surmise Wondering as to why each year His birthday drew maximum attention worldwide Of people who did not personally know him And did not invite him As they celebrated.
I was aware that he dreamed of a brighter future, Strived to spell out a new world Without destroying old relations, This was just not enough. He who cannot take care of himself Cannot be my hero, He should not meddle with our future. Also, I detest ***** people, I cannot tolerate their stench.