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Wednesday, 9 September 2015

                                                                         A BAD SINGER

From dusk to dawn.
I hear foghorn.

Around his house, the place is like a unswept stone.
And he always sing with awn.

I think he is loon.
But, he always sings with a bassoon.

I loathe whenever he sings.
And he thinks, he is doing billings.

Sometimes he zipped.
He thinks he is good singer, whose name is gilded.

He has a tarnish appearance.
Because he is sluttish.

I know this poem is hoarse.
But for this poem, i will get a sash.

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                                                                                                  BY - Himanshu Tobaria

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