The Short Arm of The Law

Cries of vengeance, vengeance …

Rented the stillness of that unholy hour,

When hungry maggots wrapped up in silken transparencies

Bared their all -

And ready customers, gloating in exquisite lust could not hide their tongues,

Which waxed and waned as the music blared to their foul breaths;

Of wine, women and urine, mixed in the mire of smelly drains…

Then a police car arrives; handsome like a prince, the guy steps out,

Not to shake hands, but to collect their share.

A regular stake, you can’t call this a loot; though

As time and tide bedeviled the nation, from generations past

Till now, the uniform always has its truth whose story’s never told.

The rickety clag of the scooter notwithstanding,

The bleary eyes of a forlorn demagogue drenched in stupor,

Gazed askance as if abandoned in the dark sullen pit of the cemetery.

Yes, he was dead though he breathes again; a living zombie;

Forgotten youth whose zest for life is equaled by younger dames in chains,

Chains of enslavement to material glory they’ll for ever long for,

But whither the time, they’ll for ever grapple the phantom threads.

So many of them, a beautiful generation lost! Their forbears not much worse,

Each man and woman groping in the darkness of survival,

While the lamp beckons with its warmth and the sweet promises -

Of a flowery tomorrow, the exotic rose coloured hibiscus affirms!

Someone should dry their tears; someone should comfort their souls;

For though parched with hopelessness, their ministers too convince,

As they grow fatter with sweat stained pockets of gold.

The question is, who bells the cat?