Many tomorrows has
Become a past.
Knights and kings,
Dons and Cappos
Making their echoes
A resounding blast.

Time outran their last thrills.
A century-cooked soup-
Scalding fingers and stenching nostrils
Mordernism and civility in a
No-letting go grip of perils.
Wilting wits . . . withering wheels;
as we fought with the last of our gills.

Can we do without a rifle
When the mind is trigger-happy?
Can we thaw a trifle
When the soul is anger-snappy?

No one goes to play in the mud
and banks the saintliness of a god

Outsidely right things
Insidely wrong thinking
Perfectionists of illusions and smoke screens
Making the world a stinking twinkling.

Can we? We can’t
We can’t quell a trifle
With the spirit of a rifle

A word is enough for the brainful
Only fools crave for mouthfuls.