Saturday, July 28, 2012


The rainy season has been so wet,
That my visitor hasn't come yet.
Every month comes the poor,
Knocking repeatedly on my door.

He would gaze to see all around
The veranda and balcony of my ground.
For he would receive the next month's store,
That is why he comes to my door.

And my neighbourhood could tell
What he did now so well;
That he has no more gut
To come as we took note.

Seducing one's daughter in one nook,
Night to my home, he was a crook.
Regrettably, he was a moron,
My alms to him is now none.

He was caught one day,
On running away without dealy.
He sought from them a favour,
As he was frightened with shiver.

Such thing wasn't good to hear,
When hearing I shed the tear.
For the man was very old,
With wives, children, young and old.

Now he could come no more,
For receiving at my door.
Pity on him I can't recall,
Grief engulfs me whenever I recall.