Misery To My Uncle
by Fiza Pathan.
Misery to my Uncle, curses to my Uncle.
In a pit of drudgery I shall bury him to great depths.
Morose are his pretensions and gruesome are his jests.
But of love, he has nothing to say.
He abhors love like a slug on a red rose of maggots.
All the females of this race are hags of wrath to him.
Fair faces he likes to ink, with a false moustache of a black marker.
Blue skies torment him and rainy days becloud him
He sits up in his office, reading Plato’s Dialogues.
Mooning over the musings of the flirtatious earthworm;
Babbling about love as the lowest form of mortal degradation.
None can touch him in intellect or peevishness.
But love is not the affection he delights in.
He can make a wing out of newspapers and charcoal;
And dress a woman up as if he was breaking down hells gate.
Hammer in hand he wants to rid the world of lovers.
He says they are a menace to the already deluded society.
Travesty has many forms from the Eden apple tree
With bubbles of sweat stinking, he drives away all beautiful honey bees.
He cooks up a sponge cake with sauce and gooseflesh.
All the poor loving couples just get ague at his mess.
But love, not my Uncle he doesn’t belong to any maiden.
The Enchantress has hung herself in frustration, at his hearts locked door.
Venus came, Jezebel came, why even Helen of Troy came.
To history books he placed them neatly in—— and burnt them.
On the fire on which he cooked his breakfast of crows eyeballs.
Gathering my love poems he discarded them on a rubbish heap.
Says he eroticism is meant to be the broodings of the singing beggars.
Hearts were meant to be broken, they are of poor quality.
Without a guarantee hearts are cast away…….
To imps of mad thoughts and crazy rantings.
Misery to Uncle, but not to love; by all the Gods…….
Has not been at least one man decayed to affection, that’s my Uncle.