Crying in Hiccoughs

The Interred In Senegal

37 Brother we are so different, So different in body and soul, So different in mind and heart, So different in look and deeds. Brother we are so different, So different in greed and frugality, So different in falsehood and honesty, So different in taste and haste. So, don’t ever call me brother, Cause we are so different, So different to be called twins, So different to be called one. The Interred In Senegal If a man dies at home, His body concretises his death, His widow, friends and well-wishers, With choice flowers adorn his corpse. They shave clean and wear sackcloth, And cry aloud as they mourn his death. They wail on mats or dusty benches, And rend their clothes in grief. But If a man dies abroad and is there interred, Nothing concretises his death, Nobody ever mentions his name. That Creates a terrible vacuum, That gags his wife and children, 38 And encages his friends in fear, As the earth moves round the sun. But Watch out fools, watch out! Since nothing concretised the death, The dead and interred abroad ain’t dead, But live abroad in pomp. Each passing day unmasks the guilt, Of cowardly friends and foes, And kindles the courage of Time, To prepare his return in fireworks. Eve Seen her before? If not, whenever, Call her Victoria, Or Victorine. Most tenderly, Vicky, Or simply, Vict. She’s at times a Vixen, Sometimes Vivacious, In some cases a Virago, And in most, a Virtuoso. All these, cause she’s Eve, Her lipstick is Violet, Her dress Victorian, And her apple V. ...