On my way to Phuket,
Pressing pen and paper inside my pocket,
With a plan of composing verses,
For the esteemed Westmorland Gazette,
Poetry is a privilege.
I am quite well heeled,
With passable grey-matter and wit,
Also, an international university degree,
And an almost complete PhD thesis.
I went for a vacation to relax in the Freedom Beach.
And as schedule permitted, I also flew to Maldives.
I sat at the beaches,
With a pen and pages,
Scribbled a few words,
Probably a drabbel,
Or some intellectual jabber gibber gabble.
A wretched man of the wretched earth
Inebriates himself way too much,
Before plunging into a sewage drain,
To fix and clean it up.
He drinks syrupy waste, excreta and sludge.
He swallows cloggy plastic, parasite and phosphorus.
While returning home after a long day of work,
He quavers, trembles, wobbles.
He splutters love, life, lust.
He jabbers gibber gabble.
My poetry is a privilege.
His poetry, a tough break.
My poetry is a recreation.
His poetry, an indisposition.