The Rope

He grows the seed destined to be the feed But it dupes him sans any heed Amidst all the unwanted weeds He plays with the tree with thoughts of being forever free By cornering away all his conundrums Which he earlier masked with cheap and costly rum Little does he know he is on the way of becoming one By accompanying the end of his child’s fun After the rendezvous with the noose he manages a segment of the prepped-up morning booze The kings in their gilded castles mourn their loss of food Whilst removing their bejeweled hoods He dreamed his child would be rich His land not to be a filthy witch But in the future, there are only rags and stitches or the rope filled with glitches Loop of such lives is endless Troop of fat pursed kings relentless Scoop of mornings tasteless To burn the rope seems baseless.