Now poets write in free verse, machines in iambic pentameter—
In our world, petroleum too, is sold on the counts of metre!
I wanted to do something huge, something for my nation’s pride:
I’m famous now for my slogans, of huge amounts of metre!
Her thought struck me like a cyclone; then I was washed ashore—
You think I’m lying, alas, I’m not, here check the anemometer!
Your apology was impeccable, nothing creased when delivered—
I wonder who tailored it so smooth, down to the last millimetre!
So, a lot of people are talking of war, and you ask what is afoot:
Is an election brewing in the air—pray, what says the barometer?
O Qasim, do not obsess over that Sherlock of Baker Street,
Another lived in my backyard, too; his name—Pradosh C. Mitter!
Photograph Courtesy: Elizabeth, Pixabay.
Arup K. Chatterjee 