While growing up, i tried becoming a priest,
In the far West,
But it was a waste,
A moral kind of waste,
To say the least..
On those village dusty pathways.
Yestarday, the drizzle was bounty,
The hill slipperly,
Like sleeping away in slumberland,
Where upon i chanced on Rich,
Brisk walking with Liz,
As they paired like a phone and the watch.
I watched,
As they matched..
That maram pathway,
Any way…
There was this aura of lust,
Fused in this Naalya dust,
Or atleast,
They had some thirst,
That vivid thirst,
Seen at first,
If one gets a chance..
To avoid the fast,
And feast!
At the corner,
They juxtaposed,
These endless junctions of Naalya!
Where upon they seemed to agree,
To proceed
As agreed
!
The alpha, appeared mascular and young,
A gym dol and wrestler,
The other, in her fourties,
That needed fortification..
What a fictitious moment!
Alas the while,
Again like kafiti, the village wag,
On this maram pathway!
