In the dim flickers of parochial society Dwells a panoply of melancholy A pagentry of pain And for god's sake its not a hyperbole All their thoughts are on the palsied path of a painful parameter In the parity of the surroundings And with the parlous chance of life they manage to cling on Inspite of struggle and strife... A parasitic prodigal is not professed but in the demands of the progeny The progression proliferates through the prophecy Of a provocative proud protector Incapable of the prowess Their prospects are of destitution but their posture of potency continues in the proximity of a prudent punter But the purgatory that they seem to see Is nothing but the paradox of poverty...........
"The time is out of Joint, O'cursed spite , that I was born to set it right..."