count me not among friends..m forgettable.. m self-destructive..hence unlovable.... dig no history..a few scars still visible.. feed me words..the thirst insatiable.. i laugh, wen they say, m a riddle; unsolvable.. pour me a drink comrade..lemme forget memories unreachable.. ma glass never empty..m incorrigible.. more »
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Comments about Abhijit Banerjee
To A (Soon To Be) Hung Poet
Plowman of his own field of
Gray; recondite words his
Sword for the prey. His lustful
pen makes a certain Venus stray.
With her deliquesced bosom, I fear
He might play.
O poet! In ink your weapon
Dip you may, in vengeance
I dip mine. Bleed her purple,
Or a foul word say; I'll drag
A poet like ye, for the
Epitaph for ye own shrine.
O poet! The tocsin of ye death,
Is loudly rung. Your doll is ma
Lady, beware poet, beware.
Scratch her an inch, the
Maple on ye flagitious field
Will bear ye body; neatly hung.