Little Billy

Grandma Hooch sat on the porch,
Drinking her grain scotch.
Not bothering to watch,
Billy burning her cat with a torch.

When little Billy was twelve
He could curse really well.
Though he never got it right until,
He could properly spell.

Jesse was a young girl, very frail,
And every chance he got, without fail,
He pulled at her pigtails.
Just to hear her wail.

Was never a time he wouldn't lie,
That he wasn't smokin' on the sly.
Or that he'd never seen girls changing,
With the hey-hole to his eye.

Played hooky from school,
Played the teacher for a fool,
Spent his class hours on a corner stool,
For saying history was a bunch of bull.

He crossed the border beyond craze,
He needed help to manage,
His heinous crimes of rage,
At the expense of his innocent age.

His dad locked him up in the closet,
For a long time, till he lost it.
Billy drew a line and crossed it.
All he did was lean back and spit

I didn't like it, he was my brother,
But Billy'd gotten a bit madder.
He told me he's have much rather,
Killed his own father.


All written text is copyright of the writer/owner - © Arvind

The Kleptomaniac

The Kleptomaniac

He lived by himself,
In a lonely room.
It was where he would eventually,
Meet his doom.

He glanced at the lass,
So placid and calm.
He disguised his age,
And turned on the charm.

Desperate for her love,
He cried and begged.
She was strong of will,
And long-legged.

There was no woman who wouldn't,
Succumb to his whim.
Yet the tables had turned,
She had no interest in him.

Losing time and patience,
He wrestled her to the ground.
The silence was broken,
By a single sound.

For halfway through his struggle,
To drag her to bed,
She had reached out for her gun,
And shot him in the head.

Within minutes of hearing,
Her relentless screams,
Uniformed men,
Appeared on the scene.

They broke into his stronghold,
With their prying hands.
And what they would find,
They would never understand.

Hidden letters in hidden boxes,
Lined up in a stack.
He had stolen many hearts,
The Kleptomaniac.


- 13th October (A spurt of rubbish during the Economics class... Oh, it's all rubbish anyway!)

All written text is copyright of the writer/owner - © Arvind

Valkyrie on Wheels

Valkyrie on Wheels

A long haired blond woman,
She steps off her shiny steed.
A cloud of dust hides the sun,
Is it a mirage in the heat?

She shrugs off her leather jacket,
All eyes turn to stare,
At tattoos snaking up her arm,
And her golden hair.

Sharp features, and a sharper tongue,
Her broken textured skin.
She is exquisitely beautiful,
And weathered by the wind.

A momentary sigh escapes her lips,
The scotch burns it's way down.
She watches the rusty blades of the old fan,
In a lonely bar, in a deserted town.

The future lies a vast expanse,
She takes her life by the hand.
Choosing a nomadic existence,
A native in a foreign land.

She thinks about her way of life,
About the time she spends.
The road, it curves and bends,
But it never ends.

They race together towards the sun,
A woman and machine fused.
A slender form on a muscular frame,
At dizzying speeds they cruise.

She's a blur, a fleeting glance,
A closer look reveals,
Golden hair riding along the wind,
And a woman on two wheels.

- Arvind (8-10-2007)


All written text is copyright of the writer/owner - © Arvind

The Minstrel Of Solitude - The Beginning...

THE MINSTREL OF SOLITUDE

He arrived one day, with a limp he strode,
A silhouette, on a dark misty road.

He plucked at the strings, a tune he played,
A sad song for a meal he would trade.

They cared not to listen, they puckered their ears,
Furrowed their brows, and sharpened their spears.

He looked at the sky, he silently scorned,
At the wilted roses, and the bed of thorns.

As the first drops of rain, touched the ground,
He uttered, his first ever sound.

And with a tune so resonant and sharp,
He picked up the shards of his broken harp.

He walked slowly away, to silently brood,
For he was the Minstrel of Solitude...


All written text is copyright of the writer/owner - © Arvind