A Poem on a poem on a goat

  Apoorva Khare ( Class X, 5/March/1995 : 0630 - 0830 )

  One fine sunny spring day I wrote
  A very long poem about a goat.
  An autobiography, rather, I should say
  Anyhow, I had spent all the day
  So then I showed it to my sister because
  I wanted to ask her how it was.

  "Are you a goat ?" was the first thing she said.
  I said, "What queer notions you've got in your head !
  This poem is of an emotional nature
  Starting with the central legislature
  Whose bills i.e. laws protected the cow
  And the killing of the pig, but still, till now
  Probably for the goat they don't have much attraction
  It's only the mutton that gives them satisfaction."

  Anyhow, she was standing, so she proceeded to sit.
  The only one to do so, she read all of it.
  Well, I expected some crying on her part
  As among us she has the most emotional heart.
  So I was stunned at what followed thereafter -
  She let out peals of rich, loud laughter.

  I asked, "What are you laughing about ?"
  She said "It's the one thing I can't do without.
  Your poem is very humorous and entertaining
  As I read more and more, the humour was gaining.
  The further one proceeds, the more it becomes strong
  And, of course, it is far too long."

  "You mean it's amusing to you ?" I did hark,
  Ignoring completely her second remark.
  "I thought that it was greatly pathetic
  To it, you should have been more sympathetic.
  I fail to see any sadness it lacks
  When the goat was chased by the man with the axe
  And also when it finally died in the butcher's shop."
  "All the same, it's long, and will be a mega-flop."

  Having failed once, I still had determination
  To display to my family my heart's elation.
  So I went on to read the poem to another
  Who was in the kitchen - my dear dear mother.
  Wanting to make her give me some praise
  I led her away from her mayonnaise
  To the dining room, and explained the situation
  And told her to listen with full concentration.

  After some persuasion she reluctantly agreed
  And my greatest creation I proceeded to read.
  As the end of the poem was rapidly nearing
  I noted that she was still keenly hearing.
  But suddenly we smelled smoke, and then on turning
  She found all her precious cooking to be burning.
  In no time at all the fire brigade was in action
  And I was left with strong dissatisfaction.

  Leaving her to herself, I went on upstairs
  As I did not want to face her glares
  To read it to the only one left - my father
  Who was shaving with his Gilette Presto and lather.
  I explained to him and he said he would hear
  If only in his shaving it did not interfere.
  I agreed, and started, but after half an hour
  When I looked up, there he was, like a tower
  Fast asleep in the same standing pose
  So my poetry reading came to a close.

  But still I didn't fall to despair
  I thought what to do, and then sent it somewhere.
  I sent it to the editor of the Hindustan Times
  He was pleased to see the way it rhymes.
  By him, my poem was then advertised
  I was overjoyed to see it popularised.
  You may think this story is going, going, gone.
  But it doesn't end here - do please read on.
  Well, my sister's prediction proved wrong
  My poem wasn't a flop - it was merely long.
  And I was awarded - you'll be pleased to hear
  For the Best COMEDY Writing of the Year.

  If it interests you, this was done on the day before my english
  exam in the class ten board examns., just after i read "the frog
  and the nightingale" by vikram seth. the rhyming of adjacent lines
  is basically the feature of the poem i "anumalik-ed" from him.