POET'S WRATHA Poem by M.Babu"Statistically speaking, that was completely unordinary. I checked the charts!"
He said he worked at the bank,
Flogged a high end salary. Cigar in hand, chest puffed and out, Face, but always pouting. She'd turned to me expectantly, A sweet smile plastered on her face. "What of you, kind Mallory, What keeps you busy, outside this Place?" "When free from worldly shackles, I'm known to jot a word or two. Aspiring writer, I guess you'd say, Sporadic, rare... As pantaloons." The banker choked into his drink, And stroked his mustache pensively. "Does writing put... Food on the table? Clothes on your back and... Jewelry?" A bit too deep, was my mirth, "No, sir, it can't compete. To crunching numbers, Micro-Finance... To Banking gen'rally. My trump card lies, not in my wallet, But the manner of my tongue. To your lovely wife, I'd quickly quip, "You're looking oddly glum... Madam I think, I have a thought, A plausible solution. And since I don't speak currency, I'll beg for absolution. Roses are red, Violets are blue, Bankers well fed, We know this is true. If you ever get bored, If you need to retreat. Feel free to just call, I'll be ready to meet. Your eyes, oh they glow, But not as they should. The makeup is flawless; Your husband's a tool. Your beauty is dwindling, Laugh less than pronounced... It's clear, my dear, I can tell at a glance. The banker wrapped a shaking hand, Around his wife's curvy waist. He deftly steered her across the room, Albeit it was a bit too late... "Call me!" ~M.Babu~ © 2016 M.BabuAuthor's Note
Featured Review
Reviews
|
StatsRelated WritingPeople who liked this story also liked..
|