Saturday, November 14, 2009

A Sonnet To Suicide

Amidst deep academic strife
Yours truly decided to take his life
In overcast weather
I couldn’t decide whether
It should be the noose or the knife

The hunt ended, a noose was found
And to the ceiling fan was bound
I stood on the chair
Tied the knot with care
So as to not make any sound

From the noose, I withdrew my hand
And let go of my life-supporting stand
In a hurry
The carotid artery

Thursday, November 12, 2009

For "Srikanth", who decided to write his name on the inside of the door of a toilet in my hostel wing.

So one day I walked into the toilet and found a disgusting sight awaiting me. I shall not describe the sight for want of a passion for eliciting vomit from my readers. Having dealt with it and finally having accommodated myself as comfortably as possible in a 3'x5' cubicle, I chanced upon the name "Srikanth" on the door. A fellow who writes his name on the toilet door is worthy of an ode, I thought. And with the thought of the sight, that had greeted me just a minute earlier, fresh in my mind, this is what happened. Read on.
I, Srikanth, was ostracized by my group
I could do naught but sit here and poop
I was ignored for I was considered lame
My friends felt hanging out with me was a shame
I am a loser who forgets to brush
To pee, to bathe and also to flush
Forgetting to flush is a heinous crime
But the loser that I am, I do it all the time
So ,the next time I excrete here, the undigested remnants of what I ate
This toilet will regurgitate.

Monday, June 29, 2009

The Development of Pharmacogenomics

The Development of Pharmacogenomics

I am a student of Aerospace engineering who's almost an Aerospace engineer. However, at the behest of one belonging to the fairer (notice how they are often very unfair) sex, I have had to write the following verse (it not just bad, you see). Its about the Development of Pharmacogenomics, or rather, my views thereof and is, in typical fashion, titled "The Development of Pharmacogenomics". My knowledge about Pharmacogenomics rivals that of Sohail Tanvir. However, I can proudly say that I can attempt to illustrate it by means of a poem while the latter might just resort to crude means like kicking you in your nuts, at being asked about it. So, The Development of Pharmacogenomics.

That "one man's meat is another's poison"
Is a saying oft heard.
But with this idiom, in the minds of some
A few thoughts thus concurred.

"That which holds true for food might just
Hold true for medicine.
One's cyanide, if by another tried
Might act as Penicillin."

So after designer homes and designer clothes
Designer rugs and designer mugs.
If all goes fine, and as per design
We'll soon have designer drugs.

The need for this I shall question not
For it is beyond all doubt.
I might then sound silly, but should we really
Nature's will openly flout?

The advent of drugs has seen a marked increase
In the types of dreadful germs.
With diseases from birds, pigs and sheep herds
We have still not come to terms.

What might happen, I shudder to think
When a person represents a disease.
That to a person maybe endemic, an entire epidemic
Puts my mind to certain unease.

I know not much, in fact I know naught
And I've argued without any clue.
But the thought does haunt, for I do not want
A disease to be named Bharat Flu.

Friday, May 29, 2009


They say all roads lead to Rome.
I think they just lead us home.

One man's gain is another's sacrifice.
You yearn to pass time, and yet time flies.

Another dies if I'm to live.
It's all a matter of perspective.

Of being supreme only he can boast.
Whose perspective matters the most.

Mine is important only at home
All roads, thus, do lead to Rome.

Monday, May 25, 2009

Barrow Wight and the Seven Dwarves

Barrow-wights are wraith-like creatures in J. R. R. Tolkien's world of Middle-earth. Barrow refers to the burial mounds they inhabited and wight is a Middle English word for "living being" or "creature". Barrow wights can suck the life out of anyone close enough and thus can not be killed by melee. Read on....

Long ago in days of yore, deep in the caves of Erebor
There lived dwarves hale and hearty
They loved listening to lore and going to war
And they also loved to party.

With their axes they were warriors fierce
In all battles they'd reign supreme
The phalanx could pierce mighty trolls with spears
They formed a formidable team.

In their axes they took the greatest pride
They had no equal in melee.
But the pleasure of range they were denied
Before archers they would flee.

And now the tale, in earnest does start.
Aye, the dwarves would fight and sing.
But their axes were, for the major part
Far more interesting.

Most axes smoked, gestured and spoke
But seven could even sing.
They were carved from oak and were bespoke
Each fitted with a dwarven ring.

One had been proven, better than Beethoven.
One sang of the universe.
One sang of the glory of Attila the Hun.
And wrote beautiful lyrical verse.

With his songs, one would venom spew
One hummed like happy bees.
One, like very few, loved things that grew
And sang of flowers and trees.

The seventh axe, however, was horribly harsh
His voice had brought down Petra.
Single handedly, at the Concert of the Dead Marsh
He had defeated "The Orc-estra"

On him were carved many ancient runes.
Ne'er was he happy or gay.
All he would do was, in irritating tunes,
Scream "Axe throwers" all day.

One day, to Erebor, the Deceiver came
In search of an elusive ring
He hadn't seen (and wasn't that was a shame?)
The axes that could sing.

Our dwarves seven, he called mighty and bold.
He moved them with deceitful words.
The dwarves he told, "In the forest old
Live not just animals and birds."

That they should go, was his humble request
With their axes and their rings.
Put their skills to test and rid the forest
Of cursed evil things.

Arrangements were made and the farewells said.
And the dwarves readied themselves.
They ate waybread and with a cry they sped
Faster than the nimblest elves.

Though creatures lurked and wild bees swarmed
They were wary of dwarven might.
And the dwarves moved unhindered and unharmed
Till they encountered a barrow wight.

Aye, what they had encountered was a barrow wight
And though they were fine and fit
Our dwarves seven, with all their might
Didn't know what to make of it.

But pride aplenty, had our dwarves seven
They gave a mighty rallying call
And on the scorched earth, under the glaring sun
In unison, met their fall.

Even against their axes and a solitary spear
The bare handed wight was stronger
They were long lived, but it was clear
That the barrow wight was to live longer.

They screamed and bawled, for they were apalled
And when they finally found their feet
They gathered at a spot that was secure and walled
Whence they beat a hasty retreat.

They wore mithril mail and called the men of dale
For it was their last resort
But their throats went dry, their food went stale
The time of the dwarves grew short.

So our dwarves seven, hungry and parched
But unmindful of their plight
Took up their weapons and on they marched
Towards the barrow wight.

They heard a horn and stopped in their tracks
And felt an approaching gale
Down from the sky or from earth's own cracks
Had appeared the men of dale.

Mithril mail they shod, they were strong and broad
Their heights were over six feet
"Have you come to our aid?", and they did nod
And asked for something to eat.

The dwarves' minds raced, up-down they paced
One solemnly shook his head
When on the land that no food ever had graced
They saw apples, ripe and red.

They laid down their bows, quivers and arrows
And disregarding the dwarven scowls
Had their fill and with contorted brows
Started uttering hideous howls.

What had gone wrong, well no one knew
On the ground each one had spread
They writhed in pain and up they threw
And one by one, dropped dead.

So the dwarves were left to face their fate
And they gathered all their might
And on they marched with their glorious gait
Towards the barrow wight.

"Ready your axes dwarves, the wight rests ahoy!"
Bellowed the dwarven bellower.
When a hoarse voice, with a juvenile joy
Shouted twice "Axe thrower!"

The dwarves battled on 'gainst the mighty wight
Who, stronger, by now had grown
They were being overwhelmed by his wighty might
He was taking their lives for his own.

The dwarves were losing, their courage sank
And it sank lower and lower.
When a hoarse voice, bored and blank
Shouted twice, "Axe thrower!"

The guardian of the axe, now incredibly irate
Turned towards the barrow wight.
And with anger, spite and humungous hate
Hurled it with all his might.

The axe smiled broadly as it traced in red
An arc, through the thin air.
It struck the wight and struck him dead
And felled him onto his lair.

Thursday, March 12, 2009

36 - 24 - 36

Look ye below - I try my hand at art
I couldn’t deny; the end might be a fart
With this, I proceed to admire women’s curves
Something every despo IITian feels he deserves

Voluptuousness can be a pleasant source of heat
Holding the sausage hostage can feel really sweet
It’s something every man thinks about everyday
Otherwise, rest assured, he’s got to be gay!

God has always played the gender game
But for this, hallowed be thy name
With a waist so titillating and nice
Oh Such beauty! It arrests all eyes

Moving on, I marvel at that round ass
A slick thong looks so amazing on a lass
Young children, old men, all shall deprave
As It can awaken an immortal from his grave

For such grave lewdity, kindly cut me some slack
Using euphemism and nicety in verse, I a tad lack
But look above and you’ll realize what’s inside
Few lines a bit narrow, others slightly wide

The love for curves, I did try to manifest
Truly speaking, in joblessness and zest
Next time, better verse I shall employ
For now, just glance above and enjoy

Thursday, February 26, 2009

The Tell Tale Fart of E.A. Poo

This is the tale of the tell tale fart
But attention pay, before I start
This poem is no piece of art
I have disclaimed, for my part
So now for the tale of the tell tale fart.

In Pennsylvania, a young man grew
He was christened Edgar Allan Poo.
He would spend hours inside the loo.
But what he did there, no one knew.

For when one sits in a loo, cooped inside
You expect him to have pooped inside.
Yet this man only whooped and cried.
And stumbled around, stooped in stride.

By some mighty woe he was always harried
Some enormous load 'twas that he carried.
Any questions 'pon that he hastily parried
Nonetheless, he was splendidly married.

'Twas expected that his union with his wife
Would, to some degree, lessen his strife
Yet he grew less fonder of his life.
And slashed his wrist with a rusty knife.

After such an attempt at commiting suicide
One would expect him to have immediately died.
But he lived no matter how hard he tried
Hanging, slashing or even cyanide.

It was a miracle, all doctors averred
Far greater than any of which they'd heard.
Like the horse that flew or the dog that purred
Or the moon landing by a swallow bird.

Years, decades, centuries went by
It rained in Atacama, the Amazon went dry
Man sprouted wings and began to fly.
But our young man, now old, refused to die.

Then disaster struck, one fine day
A sunny, bright one, in the month of May
In multitudes, people, on the ground lay
The world smelled of rotten death and decay.

And on this day, full of darkness and dread
Our young man, now old, was found dead.

The city had died from lack of breath
But a satellite had some how captured his death
The pictures showed that E.A.Poo
After 2 centuries, had visited the loo
And raised his arms in delight and surprise
The rest is left to the reader's surmise.

Wednesday, February 25, 2009

A Citrus Revelation

The demise of many none do care to grieve
But hark! their mark they do not fail to leave.

Slowly and pensively as I climbed up the stairs
(Glancing at whose floor is more than anyone cares)
Old memories revisited me when I came upon a stain
Where the orange piece (for want of a better word) had lain.

If you had, for the old poem, enough attention spared
And are alive to tell the tale - not mortally despaired,
Though the emotion was intense
There was present continous tense
You were eased by the security contained in eternity
But to discount the constancy of change and celerity,
is wanton temerity.

And I speak now of things as they are in reality
No light or shade of idealism or morality...
In the place of the solitary drupel (for that's the better word)
There lay no solitary drupel, having been moved by man or bird,
Effaced from existence, no more to be seen or heard.

There was present an orange stain that could shame the setting sun,
Lending colour to the battlefield where finality had won,
Speaking clearly the acid truth, that Vanity is Vain
Be you drupe or be you balrog, you shall end an orange stain.

"The" Vogonity

This vouchsafement of a votive vision of old,
is a vow to versify our vitriolic vituperations
and vehement vociferations
of vividly violent views, or of vague volutations --ventings vagrant voluble and verbose,
but never wanting in verve or vigour.

Look not here, visitor, for victors or vanquished, for this is not war -- it's verse.

And before the voodoo of this voraginous verbiage starts looking voulu, I shall revert to the vernacular, and begin by reproducing this colourful manifestation of the heavenly inspiration which coincided with the conception of the grandiose ambition of Vogonity.

Here's some very profound poetry inspired by the sight of a solitary orange "piece" (for want of a better word) lying on the staircase leading down to the h-6 corridor. It's titled

"An ode to the solitary orange "piece" (for want of a better word) lying on the staircase leading down to the h-6 corridor"

There the orange "piece" (for want of a better word) lay
and there it lay
and continued to do so.

there came a dog and sniffed it
and the smell apparently miffed it
for it solemnly just walked away
and walked away
and continued to do so

two poets came in sight of it
one left, one to the right of it
reflected on the plight of it.
one walked right away
one was left there to stay
and thus, there he did stay
and continued to do so

he thought, then, it was time
to speak by means of rhyme
of the orange "piece" (for want of a better word) that lay
on the staircase and to this day
continues to do so...
at the sight of the orange "piece" (for want of a better word)
the poet and his thoughts concurred
and thus he wrote away
(and continues to do so):

   "There the orange "piece" (for want of a better word) lay
    and there it lay
    and continued to do so.

    there came a dog and sniffed it
    and the smell apparently miffed it
    for it solemnly just walked away
    and walked away
    and continued to do so.

    two poets came in sight of it
    one left, one to the right of it
    reflected on the plight of it.
    one walked right away
    one was left there to stay
    and thus, there he did stay
    and continued to do so

    he thought, then, it was time
    to speak by means of rhyme
    of the orange "piece" (for want of a better word) that lay
    on the staircase and to this day
    continues to do so...
    at the sight of the orange "piece" (for want of a better word)
    the poet and his thoughts concurred
    and thus he wrote away
    (and continues to do so):

       "There the orange "piece" (for want of a better word) lay
        and there it lay
        and continued to do so

        there came a dog and sniffed it
        and the smell apparently miffed it
        for it solemnly just walked away
        and walked away
        and continued to do so 

        two poets came in sight of it
        one left, one to the right of it
        reflected on the plight of it.
        one walked right away
        one was left there to stay
        and thus, there he did stay
        and continued to do so

        he thought, then, it was time
        to speak by means of rhyme
        of the orange "piece" (for want of a better word) that lay
        on the staircase. and to this day
        continues to do so...
        at the sight of the orange "piece" (for want of a better word)
        the poet and his thoughts concurred
        and thus he wrote away
        (and continues to do so):

           "There the orange "piece" (for want of a better word) lay
            and there it lay
            and continued to do so


(If the idea of recursive poetry with 3,5,7,9-lined-stanzas appeals to you a lot, feel free to go back up and re-read. If that doesn't curb the excitement brewing inside you, we accept gifts in the form of pizzas, ice-creams and assorted chips.)

Saturday, February 21, 2009

The Absent Fiend Rebuttal

Bharat proves that he is out of rhyme
As he pains me to write time after time
But the fellow must realize why I'm choosy
As I don't treat verse like treating a floozy

Bharat, for his sins, now shall pay
As he's enraged the Lord of Verse today
His poems will be lost in carnage and chaos
Before that, Ankur and Ali, enthu for Cryos?

Friday, February 20, 2009

For Absent Fiends (All references to songs by bands, totally alive and rocking, are whole heartedly intended)

My colleague, Rajat, basks in the fame
Of having written a poem so lame.
He's seemingly thrilled
And about to be killed
For his absence is a serious shame.

Thursday, February 19, 2009


The journey started at the torrid turbine
It shall end tomorrow, as per design.
As the end of this judgment week draws near
At these mundane exams I still laugh and leer
I have seen them off without trying hard
Or muttering words muted and starred.
If testing me, Sir, is your ultimate aim
Find other ways, for these are too lame.

Wednesday, February 18, 2009

Post Midsem Blues (read Reds)

I hereby declare that I am no troll
But I screwed up flight mech and control
There's nothing special about the screw
For that's just what I generally do
But never have I been screwed up so bad
And that's why I am especially sad.

Tuesday, February 17, 2009

V Day Celibations

Lizard Lizard on the wall
On my table she did fall
To my dismay she wasn't small
And there she answered nature's call

Then hurried off like she was late ("she" can be used without loss of generality)
On the roof she found her mate
For a moment or so, they pranced about
And then they started making out

It sums up my pathetic fate
How crappy is my condition
When ALL celebrate, I'm celibate
And studying rocket propulsion!!

Sunday, February 15, 2009

A :Prayer

Oh rocket! Elegance you personify
As you stand majestic and tall.
Its Earth's own will that you defy
You leave her puny and small.

The toughest cower at your booming sound
Your speed shocks Superman
In your wake he is wanting found
And he withers, weak and wan

You generate waves with your unearthly skill
Barriers mean nothing to you
You call monotony what others call thrill
For nothing, to you, is new.

O Lord, you're the one I think about
At your glorious grace I bow
In the morn in the eve, day in ,day out
Do your blessings on me bestow

To money, to power I pay no heed
Those are for lesser men
More profound, O Lord, is my need
For I need a perfect ten.


Palindromic Rhyme - V Day special.

I study the science of propulsion
On the birthday of St. Valentine
The cupid shoots arrows of love
While I sit in my room, forlorn
Wondering where the love has gone
I look outside and see a dove
Waiting for his darling Clementine
I realise, even that ain't much fun.

Saturday, February 14, 2009


After a hectic academic semester grip
My mind yearned for a relaxing trip
To Pakistan. My parents weren’t really amused.
At first they disallowed, but were now confused.

Disrespecting, I took an early morning flight.
Despite warnings at dinner the previous night.
I landed, and to my embarrassing despair
It was reeking with filth everywhere

I asked myself ‘Should I go back?’
But, nay, my mind was back on track
With baggage in hand, will and the urge
A vacation to look forward to; and splurge

I took the local newspaper and sat
‘Indian Leaders playing tit for tat’
was the headline. In dismay, I turned the page
To find more articles on Pakistan’s rage

My trip was short; there was a lot of pressure
To fulfill my desires to an adequate measure
Mohen-jo-daro? Shopping? I couldn’t decide whether
the places are worth it, or am I making heavy weather.

I witnessed the ‘Indus Valley’ in all its bloom
‘Twas my happiest state of mind, I’d assume
Relics, flowing water, it was paradise!
The romance of it all, I couldn’t suffice

It has always been an ancient religious place
Of visitors of every colour and race
European or Indian; how does it matter?
The scenic beauty of the place, sure does flatter.

Alas! The moment had now arrived
To move on with the travel schedule contrived
I rose and washed my hands with care
And proceeded to wear my underwear!

(now read the poem once again with all the puns in place)

Mirror Mirror on the wall.

Mirror mirror on the wall
Why the hell am I so tall?
Or why the hell are you so low
That I've to double up, to settle my brow?
When I look at you straight , I see my knees.
I can admire my shoes with consummate ease.
On them shoe polish I can easily anoint.
But that, my mirror, isn't your point.
To see my face I have to lift you.
But you are heavy and I have but two
Hands, which, when thus employed
Can't settle my hair, leaving me annoyed.
So dear mirror, since you are low
You certainly have to go.

A Warning

My poetry may be pathetic and sad
Yet it needn't concern my left gonad
Understand Rajat, it is high time
Publicly will be displayed this rhyme
The 'l' is crucial, you must realise
Or we will have to sever ties.

The Lime Of The Ancient Mariner

(Disclaimer: The starred stanzas have been picked up from the original poem : The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. Any resemblance to any person dead, non living, alive or comatose is purely coincidental. Any resemblance to such albatrosses is, however, completely intentional.)

Three young men walked down the road
On which an old man stood
The wind bellowed, ill luck it bode
It took off the oldie's hood.

A long grey beard, a glittering eye
Aye the old man had
An eye for an eye, stood up one guy
"Hey, that looks like dad!"

"We'll carry on, if that be true"
And when asked what they meant
Said the other two, it was his issue
And on their way they went

Lonely and cold, this guy walked on
To where the old man stood
And thus the pair, at the stroke of dawn
Sat on a log of wood.

"But you aren't my dad after all"
Said the young man to the old
Said the old man, gaunt and tall
"I have a story which must be told"

I once made a dish full of zing and delice
With ingredients from wide and far
It had sugar and spice and everything nice
But it just wasn't quite sour.

I wondered how I could make it so
What chemical, which enzyme?
Behold and lo! With a frowned brow
I realized I needed lime.

But my land was that of the Midnight Sun
Forever dry and cold
I needed lime but I found none
And nowhere was it sold.

'In these parts', said a man of yore
'Lime is rather rare'
'Tell me more', I did implore
'If not here then where'?

'Three thousand south, four hundred west''
'Is where you should be bound'.
The caribbean is where, in your quest
Will the choicest lime be found.'

'Aye' said I, without a moment's waste
Towards the harbour I ran
I made haste, and my quest for taste
In great earnest, began.

*The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared,
Merrily did we drop
Below the church, below the hill,
Below the lighthouse top.*

The sun came up, so did the tide
They came and they went down
Dolphins cried and swam astride
Kelp floated, long and brown.

But the sky went dark, the sea stood still
We were dank and warm
Then the sea went wild, the wind did trill
The harbinger of a storm!

For days it went, a fortnight neared
The wind howled and tore our sails
The sun he sneered, the clouds they cleared
We'd seen the last of the gales

We rejoiced and cheered and drank and bawled
In merriment did we crow!
But then we stalled and stared appalled
For all around us was snow.

'But of this I've heard, weary I grow'
Said the young man to the old.
'If that be so, I'll let you know
What still hath not been told.'

All the while, caught in the ice
I had only cursed my fate.
In fact I'd twice, considered demise
When screamed thus the first mate.

'Behold! Yon solitary albatross!
Tis always a good omen!'
I looked up, cross, at the albatross
And fainted at what I ken.

Tis the truth I speak, the bird in his beak
Carried something round and yellow.
I had at last found what I did seek
A lime, big and mellow!

I hailed the bird and down he came
And uttered a friendly hoot
He wasn't quite tame but all the same
He gave me the fabulous fruit.

Though I had my lime, it wouldn't suffice
I needed several more
I fed the bird rice, he went forth thrice
And my limes now numbered four.

The ice gave a shudder and broke apart
The wind whistled a merry tune
And I thanked the bird from the bottom of my heart
For he'd brought me good fortune.

My vision blurred as I wondered
If I would see the bird again.
"Land ahoy!", screamed all in joy
And we docked at Port Of Spain

For the whole fortnight was the prospect bright
My stockpile surely grew
Every day and night, I'd scream in delight
I would make sour, my stew!

In due course of time, I had enough lime
My barrels numbered three
Every lime would earn me a dime
I pranced about in glee.

It was finally time for us to leave
Leave the Caribbean coast
We gave the sails one big heave
And raised one final toast.

It had been a week since we'd set sail
When events thus concurred.
Led by its tail? Blown in by the gale?
Down flew a large white bird.

He circled the ship as he'd done in the past
Then he stooped and flew down
He came down fast and perched on a mast
As on a king's head is a crown.

What happened next, I'm sure you know
For my tale is one of renown.
I took an arrow and I strung my bow
And shot the poor bird down.

I saw then that he'd brought me a lime
Perhaps a token of farewell
All agreed, 'twas a heinous crime
And that I would rot in hell.

Smooth and steady we, meanwhile, sailed on,
Fate was with us, all averred.
'Be not forlorn for him who's gone
He was just a shady ol' bird.'

*The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew,
The furrow followed free;
We were the first that ever burst
Into that silent sea.*
The sea stood still, no wind did come
And life went topsy turvy.
And in this doldrum, bled many a gum
My comrades all had scurvy.

Devoid of time, I ran for lime
Down to the cargo store.
But the lime I sought, it reeked of rot
And was rotten to the core.

Limes and lemons, everywhere
And all of them did stink.
Limes and lemons, everywhere
And all as black as ink.

We tried guava, gooseberry we tried
But all was in vain.
As the men cried and howled and died
Of hunger and in pain.

'You know folklore, I'll say no more'
Said the old man to the young.
'Aye, not the cross, but the albatross
About your neck was hung'.

'The sky grows bright, my head grows light
And I feel sorry for your plight.
For I know of the reason behind your rime.
All that trouble for silly old lime.
But doubtable is your knowledge of taste.
I wouldn't have ever made such haste.
And for a lime, travelled that far.
When vinegar makes food equally sour'.

The Adventures Of Praseodymiumpraseodymium

On a drab, dreary morning, I was born
Announced to the world by a horrendous horn.
Upon my birth, it thus transpired
That as a shogun, I was to be attired.
Thus dressed, I had neither reason nor rhyme
To be in Norway, and soon it was time
For me to be sent off to Japan on a ship.
And so I embarked on a torturous trip.
So terrible it was, I thrice tried to elope
Most notably near the Cape of Good Hope.
I was wondering why they took the longer route
When Napoleon told me that the Suez was still moot.
Resigned to my fate, I decided to kip
When the Hispaniola decided to take a dip.
Near a vertex of the Bermuda, the Hispaniola sank
And I found myself afloat, dank on a plank.
To make matters worse, my prospects did blacken
As I was deviously devoured by the Kraken.
"What place is this?" I wondered aloud in fear
When I heard a voice that said "Alimentary, my dear".
I asked Holmes if there was a way out.
He said the only one was through the snout.
Near the snout I saw a rainbow stoking a fire.
And I joined in with a fervent desire.
The plan worked, the Kraken gave a squeeze.
I came out with flying colours in the Kraken's sneeze.
After a week I landed atop Livingstone
And claimed Lake Victoria for my own.
But a shogun was unwelcome in these parts
And I soon was dodging deadly darts.
They were one too many, I had to abscond
In desperation, I pulled out my wand
"Stupefy", I yelled, "Petrificus Totalus"
And out of thin air I conjured up Pegasus.

(To be continued......)

The Wee Musketeers

These musketeers, well they were wee
For our purposes there were just three
The way he wielded his sword, a musketeer
Put paid to the notion that the pen is mightier
Their swords would swing at speeds supersonic
But otherwise, they were definitely moronic.

Every now and then, they would shout
"One for all and all for one"
Whip their swords out, get ready for a bout
And that's how all their work was done.

But "musketeers" is what they were called
And at this, I am seriously appalled.
For, what man, in possession of one,
Would use a sword and not the gun?

A Solemn Declaration

As an intermediate judgment day draws near
I hereby solemnly declare
At the mundanity of exams I laugh and leer
I don't give a damn, I do not care.

My Predicament 2

Long ago, I did nurse
An ambition to write in verse.
But when I finally sat down to write
Poor, nay, pathetic was my plight.
I went from poor to bad to worse.
My poems, into a hearse, were thrown.
And on a sad, sodden, stormy night
Were at a burial site, buried.

HomAge of Empires

The Great Khan and his hideous horde
Left cities grotesquely gutted and gored
And left them flaming in furious fires

Theoderic the gawdy garrulous Goth
His foe's only daughter, did betroth
To fulfil his devious, deadly desires

Attila the humungously horrible Hun
Was brutal and barbaric; he killed for fun
And led entire peoples to their funeral pyres

Oh lets not be such lamentable liars
Lets come out of our quasi static quagmires
As in these turbulent times
We write ridiculous rhymes
Lets not forget The Age of Empires

My Predicament

Since my own blog no one does read
Rajat's advice for once I'll heed
Amid vivas and vexations at vorticity
I hereby revert to vogonity.

Friday, February 13, 2009


Read Jerk-ati, TG and Rajat share
Rhymes about their pubic hair
Or perhaps other more delightful things
Like sex, metal or the Lord of the Rings

We hereby profess to every lass and lad
That our poetry is really pathetic and sad
If you liked this one, scream "Rajat cracks!"
Else keep it simple - '"Dayaamax!"