I won’t be snorting anything through this! A little poem about something I found in my wallet.
Through The Grime Smiles Mahatma Gandhi: A Poem by Peter Boydell
Resembling the deathbed of an ancient rat,
or a door mat
where a fossil once shat.
This filthy, spent sponge.
It’s been stuffed inside a Goan fisherman’s dhoti.
It’s filled the bill for a homeless leper’s roti.
It’s been stood on, bled on, sneezed on, wiped;
supplied food, murder, schooling, wives.
This particular rhyme, I quote,
describes this Indian, ten Rupee note.
Thanks for reading.
Other poems by Peter Boydell