Now listen to the tale of Lila LaRue
A tale that taught us
to think before you do.
A plump gal she was, weighed three hundred and three
She had a strange love for berries, you see?
She hopped down Yale Trail,
And sat on stump
Plop! Right next to Edward the grump.
Edward was old, his memory fading
and didn’t appreciate Lila’s space invading.
“Lila,” he grumbled
“what do you need?”
“I’m looking for the old Yale Berry Tree!”
He sighed and humphed and grumped and thought,
“Kids these days.”
The adventures they sought!
He pointed to the left,
and said ”follow the trail.”
How Lila couldn’t wait to fill her pail!
Lila ****** to her side,
And broke into a run;
She had to get berries
‘Fore the day was done.
But then Edward shouted
something she couldn’t make out
so she lifted her head to see what it was about.
But she tripped on a root
And fell into a tree
“Its old Yale!”
Lila thought with great glee.
She plucked off a berry,
with a strange looking skin
But what was stranger
Was what lied within.
The juice is too ****,
she thought much too late.
Then the grump found her,
in her lifeless state.
“Such a fool, that Lila LaRue.
never read the sign, like I told her to do.”
“Poisonous Berries, please do not eat.”
The sign read, freshly painted and neat.
Always listen to Edward
for he is old and wise.
“Never let a careless  mistake
become your demise.”

Jaimin sir, a kind man, with smile cute,
Prepared for supporting me in lawsuit
Is ready to fight against any odd acute;
Managing school and university with astute.
In the premises everyone does salute!
Revered for his perseverance which dilute
All miseries, anxieties and commute
Joyfully with him in leisure to compute
Your mistakes and victories that overshoot.
All liked him for his ability to refute.
Grumped man speaks cool like flute
Under omnipresence, one who does hoot
Ruins his own impression and does salute;
Unacceptable people do get execute
Surely; teachers like me are with parachute
Inspired by him to remove Prafulla persecute,
Remove such drastic elements for institute.

I will admit that “caterwauling” is an ugly word,
But, no matter how joyful the noise,
It’s the only word which fits any sound
That ****** deafening come sunrise on a Sunday morning.
Once again, in song and speech, they were down there,
Loud enough to call all the souls of the just to Glory;
Indeed, the whooping and hollering
Was enough to lead one to suspect
That, just perhaps, they had followed the exhortations of the pastor
And thrown all the wild women, cards and drink
Into the river after all.
It’s not like they do this every **** weekend or anything,
I grumbled (loudly enough to ensure your transition
From the limbo of semi-awake to the real thing,
Part and parcel of ‘til death do we part, in my way of thinking)
But you simply wrapped an arm
A little more tightly around my waist,
Sighing Each to his own, Baby.
Can’t you just celebrate the joys of sleeping in?
I smiled to myself (my back to you, after all)
Ruminating a bit upon the business of revelation
Being a damnably funny thing,
Though I grumped and growled a bit as a matter of principle
How the good book made it a point to mention
That He was not averse to an occasional day off.