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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 home 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! ! !