Her English Is Stormy, British And Accented Well, My English Not So Good, Frankly Speaking, I Cannot Like Copycat Convent School Educated, Even Failing Original Speakers Poem by Bijay Kant Dubey

My English is very poor,
Frankly speaking, I am weak in
Speaking
and even though speak I, pronounce I
As an Indian,
A Hindiman,
A Hindustani,
Not Pakistani
Which came to later on,
My English
Whether you believe it or not
Is no good English,
Slowly and slowly
My train passes by
Like the coal engine,
Particles flying
And it chugging,
The guard whistling
Running without
Sufficient light and water
And other facilities,
An Indian train
Just like that
Wherein the passengers jostling,
Puling and pushing
And shoving,
The fools of Indian democracy
And the jokers of population explosion
Keep packing
And with the truckloads
The trains keep pulling.

But some speak like tornadoes,
Storms coming
And ruffling it all,
Bowling fast,
Very fast spell
And I a batsman
Trailing before,
Shaking to see the deliveries,
Fearing to hear in-comes
The fast bowler from the pavilion end
And I murmuring,
My God, save You,
Where are You,
Save me,
Save me this spell,
This over
Of the stormy bowler,
In-comes the fast bowler
And before he in-comes
I falling down,
My bat in her air,
I trying to save my chin,
My wickets fallen,
Sorry to say
As it slipped by,
Fell not, broken,
The bails gone off
And I returning somehow
After thanking God
Which but saved me
With the fall of the stumps.