Cut, don't fry

As it was no use
running my fingers on my paunch
enjoying a bullock-cart-paced life
sitting all day at a village hotel where
frustrating folks get in off and on
taking a break from the bullock-cart-paced life,
I decided to go for a change. 

Finding my place among the mortals
of pure entertainment 
toying with offering a drink to wearied souls
I have made the right choice by shifting here
in the cacophony of this town life,
my comfort zone.

Wearied souls they get in every day
every night
to my Zola drinking den;
Time was not the matter
but the stories, they would toast to
Of alcoholic fathers and run-away mothers
Of siblings who ever croon
"Police, police, police and thieves, oh, yeah!"
Of friends who died of drug overdose
Of useless neighbours and useless thoughts.

And on hopeful nights
the wise would swarm
telling the tales
of loots they looted
of fools they fooled.

When old is not the night
is when the place got the sight.
And the collectors would come wordlessly
The reserved battalion collector
The commando collector
The charlie collector
and all kinds of other collectors
Take the cut, dogs, but don't fry
And all they can let out is a soft moan.

A Collector Contest [Pic:]



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