For the curious this is a poem that I had written, perhaps a decade ago for some college competition. Luckily, I stumbled on that very paper on which I wrote this poem. Just make sure I don't loose my work, I'm now filing it in my blog.
Like a western story telling style, I leave the plot of the poem to the good imagination of the readers.
Like a western story telling style, I leave the plot of the poem to the good imagination of the readers.
I wish my wife were dead,
or I can have her smashed in head.
I hire a man,
and tell him my plan.
But, he elopes with her instead.
Now, I'll take another route.
First to kill this brute,
who eloped with my wife,
with whom I had a strife.
I begin my hunt picking a machete.
I go here,
I go there,
hoping to find him somewhere.
But alas, he seems no where,
and that is just not fair.
Unrelentingly, I go searching,
to punish for his breaching.
With the machete I had picked up,
I wanted to slit his throat up.
What else can I be doing?
I'll not give up,
I'll just not give up.
No matter where he is,
he'll face retributive justice.
He'll have to face it up.
For she might not be a witch,
but is surely a bitch.
She will bark all day and every day,
without a single holiday.
This man cannot come out of this hitch.
But then, it is I who want to rip him,
for I became his victim.
Soon, I'll find him,
and not spare him.
For sure, I'll kill him.
In my search one night, I find him dead,
in a pool of blood.
All around there is very dim light,
for it is well past mid-night.
Little confused, I stand digesting the situation.
And then looking around his dead body,
I saw my wife's body.
Neither am I elated,
nor am I dejected.
Oh God, what did I walk into?
It is very calm,
and I see in her palm,
a blood spattered note,
before death she wrote.
It read as below, and was no soothing balm.
"Honey, why do you want to kill me?
I know you'll not tell me.
If my death is what you desire,
so shall it transpire.
I fight because I love you. And I still love you."
Reading it, "Jesus!", I cried,
so loud that my throat dried.
I raise the machete to slit my throat,
to end the journey in this life-boat.
I wish my wife had not died and we lived happily ever after.
or I can have her smashed in head.
I hire a man,
and tell him my plan.
But, he elopes with her instead.
Now, I'll take another route.
First to kill this brute,
who eloped with my wife,
with whom I had a strife.
I begin my hunt picking a machete.
I go here,
I go there,
hoping to find him somewhere.
But alas, he seems no where,
and that is just not fair.
Unrelentingly, I go searching,
to punish for his breaching.
With the machete I had picked up,
I wanted to slit his throat up.
What else can I be doing?
I'll not give up,
I'll just not give up.
No matter where he is,
he'll face retributive justice.
He'll have to face it up.
For she might not be a witch,
but is surely a bitch.
She will bark all day and every day,
without a single holiday.
This man cannot come out of this hitch.
But then, it is I who want to rip him,
for I became his victim.
Soon, I'll find him,
and not spare him.
For sure, I'll kill him.
In my search one night, I find him dead,
in a pool of blood.
All around there is very dim light,
for it is well past mid-night.
Little confused, I stand digesting the situation.
And then looking around his dead body,
I saw my wife's body.
Neither am I elated,
nor am I dejected.
Oh God, what did I walk into?
It is very calm,
and I see in her palm,
a blood spattered note,
before death she wrote.
It read as below, and was no soothing balm.
"Honey, why do you want to kill me?
I know you'll not tell me.
If my death is what you desire,
so shall it transpire.
I fight because I love you. And I still love you."
Reading it, "Jesus!", I cried,
so loud that my throat dried.
I raise the machete to slit my throat,
to end the journey in this life-boat.
I wish my wife had not died and we lived happily ever after.