The road stretched so far,
The unforgiving sun burned down,
The heels now stuck to tar.
The head was held so high,
And cloth was padded soft,
The Wicker Basket lay on it,
As It did oft.
Holes had now grown bigger,
The knots had given out,
Bore, It did, the smelly onions,
so, It did, without a shout.
Roses had been easier,
The puffed rice was the best,
Mint, you could do without,
you wanted to fray, unless.
The market was the finest,
Some sights and sounds it had,
Yet it was Madras, on beholding,
that the basket would be glad.
The onions did now reek,
Strain, they did, on the veins,
The wickerbasket held its own,
fought it did against the pains.
Come then, the flood, it did,
it tore the straw apart,
Onions came tumbling down,
A new curse now on Its heart.
The trees still stood tall,
And the road did stretch far,
But the Basket still lay down,
Laid down, no need to go far.
0 comments:
Post a Comment