Humour, poetry, satire, Self-Help, wit,

Exorcisim of Flue

Pray smiles to be infectious, not cruel flue
Sneezing coughing reeling be transformed 
Into jumping, dancing merrymaking 
Let smile spread its rays not the contagious virus
The agony and lamentation will strangulate you 
Let in each house dwells a divine heater
Providing warmth and protection of mother’s lap 
Aloud bang, a sneeze last week in the shower
A bad omen understood, I knew the second coming
It grabbed me last winters with its cruel beak 
Poking, scratching, bruising gentle nose 
Became untouchable in my own golden cage
Fear lingered midst mob of fraternity 
A look of horror gripped the gentle husband 
What ensued a sport of hide and seek 
Seven thundering nights and days 
The merciless devil possessed, howled
Hammered my innocent head, miracle concoctions
Holy waters stopped working, until on efforts 
Of an ancient doctor’s exorcism, the spell was broken 
Exquisite  Zingiber Officinale, the herb from a valley 
Far in basins of holy Ganges was brought 
The divine sage burnt with chants the stubborn
The flue was chased, trapped in a lamp from
Arabian nights finally set afloat to distant lands 
With words of caution, get your shots on time 
Or escape the wrath of devil, whose terror ranges
from sinking sands of Sahara to impenetrable 
forests of Amazonian terrain, till the mighty 
Himalayas. 

(I wrote this poem as I am suffering from the bad flu, I’ve been sneezing and coughing a lot. The poem is my take on this irritating ailment.)

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Humour, poetry, satire, wit,

No Dearth of Fools in This world

One Monsieur Tiramisu perplexed
Decided to hunt fools in the complex
Modesty was his robe which he wore
With unparalleled vanity and pride 
Carried a machete with a daunting task
Wiping out fools before dusk
Stepped out of the house in the icy storm
Looking for a trace of any delinquent in the town 
Not a soul on the slippery road, wondered 
Where have my victims gone tonight 
Saw a bearded homeless by the side 
Have you seen any fool, for I’m on the
Mission to slay them all my friend 
Then you must go home my foe
Make a near precision on your neck
For you are a fool  yourself, Mr. Boskichov
How dare you spoke those words to me
You insolent bastard, I called you a friend 
Don’t underestimate your foolishness Monsieur
For anyone to have an idea of hunting fools 
Stepping out of house in the icy cold wind 
Carrying a machete in the age of gun
Asking a homeless for people’s address
I am talking to someone like you, I am a fool myself
Tanya penning us in poem is bigger fool than us 
Those reading carefully this gibberish text are,
Biggest fools so far yet, a tale of fools read by fools 
There’s is no dearth of fools in this world  my friend!