Every itch-cock behaved like a Hitchcock,
Every pelvis a wannabe Elvis,
Vaginas with no less share of monologues
and knee-deep cleavage,
hopped, stopped at every chunky counter,
picked the card, and fucked off!!
Art was just a fart.
Hippies went local,
Locals went high on focal,
Shallow faces hidden behind geek glasses,
blind people trying to pedicure masses,
water was there, the current was missing,
Installations seemed student P.J. of Sir J.J.
abuse of the word ‘muse’.
‘Where’s the Kala Ghoda?’ many asked as usual
‘removed way back in 65’ an oldie hinted
but with every passing year nobody noticed
an old world was slowly leaving its shore.