Honourables
At eighty he is still a coolie
Toiling in paddy lea
Reaping pods and
Heaping the seeds
His sagged muscles working
In wonted harmony
But his brain tired of thought
Of his son who died as a sot; or
Of his daughter widowed at twenty past
Or his wife pulling weeds at another spot
He has to carry on this moil; I thought
Till death to retain his breath
Looking at his pitiable plight
A wicked feeling swept my heart
How great we're in contrast
Honourable servants of the State
We retire at sixty, in peace
Take a lump sum of grant, apiece
Also a pension for monthly use
Last but not the least
A T.V and a chair to ease
All this at what a simple price
For sleeping forty years in office! ! !
poem by Sathya Narayana
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