Wasted
Beard in fashion.
His comely face still the cynosure- the attraction.
Eyes as bright as candles.
Teeth as clear as marbles.
The disco lights were all he craved
And to wine,he had become enslaved
Pipes and cigar were his life
Mistresses he sought and not a wife.
He had the strength of forty horses.
Even,he could match a million forces.
He could sprint for eighty leagues
Tearing through forests and snapping twigs.
He had them all-all in multitude
All his legacies,he summed up in
a mantra:
"Do some mischief,then become chief"
He was fed up with mischief.
Now,he wanted to become chief.
But things were no longer rosy
His eyes now glowed as red-hot coal
And teeth as dark as a hole.
He couldn't sprint a fraction metre
Not even a frail man could he batter.
It was a slide down the pecking order
Deserted by all - foe and brother.
Like a plague,he lived in solitude
Deserted by his mistresses- and exodus
in multitude.
Sun was setting behind his head
In grief and regret,his heart bled.
He had - but flunked it all
No comely face,no strength and no family at all.
His legacies had come to nought:
"Do mischief,suffer and rot"
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