Naught she cared when out of love I touched her heart
But, alas, out of lust when the son of a gun touches her bosom,
She cries: “Oh, darling, once more, oh just a little more.”
Tell me, oh friend, how can jealousy not play jealousy’s part?
Then, off I go from her, and brood near the silent shore.
Shan’t I love a stripping whore, but take delight in being lonesome.
For love, much I did: once, twice and thrice
And lo! She told me a lie then lies after lies.
Copyright © 2012 RAMU DAS