Hardik Vaidya (26 Dec 1969, yet to kick the bucket. / Mahuva, Gujarat, India.)
When I was a child, I did not know what's a discount.
I never asked for much, because I waited for my own pound.
Then I took a profession, they call it a sales hound.
I sold to people stallions, who they always wanted to mount.
I never lied, I never cheated, fools who don't sell, think unsound.
I tapped into desires, fetish, hidden lust, and gave them a merry go round.
Then I met this word called discount.
They told me your mare is same as his mare, so why should I mount?
They knew he was brighter, his legs far tighter, his spirit soar brighter,
But the liars they always thought they were smarter.
I saw their idiocy, I saw their nudity, just as a whore would see of her master,
But I was to make a sale, not to change their rotten ale, therefore I got the wiser.
But when I am the buyer, and my vendor comes to me with a shaver,
I throw him off my list, because I don't want a bitch,
I want a woman, a soul, a solution, for my ever thirsty itch.
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