Life

Life is hell, living worse
Broken dreams, and rhymeless verse.

Agonized screams that no one hears,

High expectations, and ruthless jeers.

Exams, tests and faceless fears

Horrible, scary, deep-set fears.

Pressed and squeezed, duty-bound you see - 

That small skinny lad, yes, that is me.

The edge of a cliff, hands pushing me -

But desperate hope still clinging to me.

Without your love, dead  I shall be.

Walking, talking, but as dead as dead can be.

Please call me back; lie to me:

Look into my eyes, tell me you love me.

The Death of Lady Hill

Old Lady Hill

Decided to die.

Her phone bills, (she said)

Were very high.

“Phone calls, I,

Very rarely make –

And if ever I do,

A minute do they take.

“Last call I made,

(Was) To my girl at Timbuctoo,

I made the call at one,

And ended sharp at two.”

Ha! What is that you say?

A call from one to two,

That too to Timbuktu!

‘Tis no wonder then

The phone bills that you get

For who would call abroad –

And hang up so very late!

Chided by her neighbours,

And scolded by her son,

Lady Hill decided –

That life on earth was done.

She picked up the kitchen knife,

And prepared to slit her throat,

But at that very moment,

(the phone) Started bleating like a goat!

“First things first”,

Said the lady to herself.

And leaving the kitchen knife,

Went over to the phone’s shelf.

And now my dear reader,

Let me tell you this:

That was very long ago,

And nothing is still amiss!

For Old lady Hill

Is still glued to the phone,

And has been talking constantly,

From morning to afternoon.

The caller is a girl,

And the lady calls her “Poo”

Ah! You are right in guessing,

It's her girl from Timbuctoo!

The knife lies forgotten on the desk,

The sun has set down low.

Oh! For heaven’s sake, madam –

How can you talk so!