The rules are played out differently here, written by the most foolish, the most cunning.
All these fascists, with opinions to appear smarter, solutions to change the world, money to feed the poor, money to feed off their friends; they all sit on the maroon chairs and loom over their twitter profiles.
They start from scratch.
They begin with the inconsistent pawn. They make them their friends.
Then they move on to the bigger, grimier, shady pawns. They make them their acquaintances.
After this, they start with the bulbous, slimy, hairy pawns. They sleep with them.
Then one night, when the money seems alright and the silence plays low, they bring out their rolling papers,
and begin.
They call the inconsistent one, to crack the jokes no one finds funny.
They call the shady one, to bring the stash.
They call the slimy one, to fondle through the night.
They play,
They score,
They win.
This strange, strange world.
Meanwhile in the same town across the moon, some commoners with very less money cry. They cry, not because they don't win the game of life; they cry because they always played the fair game.
They cry for the strangers in this strange, strange world.
All these fascists, with opinions to appear smarter, solutions to change the world, money to feed the poor, money to feed off their friends; they all sit on the maroon chairs and loom over their twitter profiles.
They start from scratch.
They begin with the inconsistent pawn. They make them their friends.
Then they move on to the bigger, grimier, shady pawns. They make them their acquaintances.
After this, they start with the bulbous, slimy, hairy pawns. They sleep with them.
Then one night, when the money seems alright and the silence plays low, they bring out their rolling papers,
and begin.
They call the inconsistent one, to crack the jokes no one finds funny.
They call the shady one, to bring the stash.
They call the slimy one, to fondle through the night.
They play,
They score,
They win.
This strange, strange world.
Meanwhile in the same town across the moon, some commoners with very less money cry. They cry, not because they don't win the game of life; they cry because they always played the fair game.
They cry for the strangers in this strange, strange world.
3 comments:
This will be one of my most favouite posts by you. I know how it is! Trust me.
Stop it with your 'Let's make our peers feel like squashed, rotten oranges' plan. Anyhow, this.
Meher: Thanks :)
Karan: Haha, Adeeba ne dikhaya? Will see. :)
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