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 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! ! !