Tucked away, beneath it all,
Are crumbs of bread, papad and dal.
Who put them there, I cannot tell.
Somebody’s going to burn in hell.
‘Have you been eating on my keyboard?
I asked my neighbour-in-disguise.’
“Why are you so mad?”, she despised.
“Can you not chill?” She criticized.
‘Can I beat you, and show you mad?
Why is it that you don’t feel sad?’
‘Look at what’s here … and with fear die
Look right there, bombil fry?’
‘Keep your lunch away form me.’
‘Give me freedom. To be free.’
“But then where do I go?
What do I see?
Where do I eat?
What’s in it for me?”
‘To hell with you. Your crumbs. Your life.
It’s my keyboard not our wife.
So eat at the table, you filthy pest.
Give my vacuum cleaner, much needed rest.’
