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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required At last, Mr. J Bugman is now a retired Judge-man. For many years he has punished many, spared few. His verdicts never alter even if there is no hangman. He had no rest, no serenity, working is all he knew. Retiring, he sought peace by sleeping with content, He has never slept; yes, he has but not in true sense, Now, sleeping his first real sleep is his sole intent. He is slave to none, lies on the bed of own manse. Night was silent, his eyes dimmed with drowsiness, Suddenly, there was a soft noise, then, it was louder. Switching the lights on, he crept towards the mess Of Newspapers on the base, something was there. It was neither a thief nor a beast, it is a cockroach That has spoiled his much-awaited plan, he howls With rage, he will not relax until he makes poach Of that tiny rascal, He aims at it with books, bowls. Pages of books fly, glassy dishes shatter into pieces, But that swift creature is unharmed as if it’s charmed. Bugman picks up his ever-faithful Stick, then, chases And slays it with one blow, its death is now confirmed. Next night, he makes sure that his sleep is undisturbed, He has already sprayed repellants, a good night’s sleep Is waiting for him, his eyelids shrank and eyes dimmed But again a soft noise hurt his wakeful ears with a beep. Disgusted, he left the bed an turned the lights on again And found a rat that eating biscuits loudly that can undo His sleep or already has. He sighed, “O God, O heaven! Well, here is another nice mess you have gotten me into.”
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