i want a funny poem by a famous Indian poet.
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containing stark white sheets,
perfect in their presentation of absence.
Only a bold logo on top
revealed its origin,but absolutely nothing else.
I examined the sheets,
peered through their grains —
heavy cotton-laid striations —
concealing text, in white ink, postmarked India.
Even the watermark's translucence
made the script’s invisibility transparent.
Buried among the involute contours, lay sheets
of sophisticated pulp, paper containing
scattered metaphors — uncoded, unadorned,
untouched — virgin lines that spill, populate
and circulate to keep alive its breathings.
Corpuscles of a very different kind —
hieroglyphics, unsolved, but crystal-clear.
--- by sudeep sen
Let me see if Philip can,
Be a little gentleman,
Let me see if he is able
To sit still for once at table,
Thus spoke in earnest tone
The father to his son
And the mother looked very grave
To see Philip so misbehave
But Philip he did not mind
His father was so kind
He wriggled
And giggled
And then I declare
Swung backward and forward
And tilted his chair
Just like any rocking horse
Philip, I am getting cross!
See the naughty restless child
Growing still more rude and wild
Till his chair falls over quite
Philip screams with all his might
Catches at the cloth but then
That makes matter worse again
Down upon the ground they fall
Glasses, knives, forks and all
How Mamma did fret and frown
When she saw them tumbling down
And papa made such a face
Philip is in sad disgrace
Where is Philip? Where is he?
Fairly cover' d up, you see
Cloth and all are lying on him
he has pulled down all upon him
What a terrible to do
Dishes, Glasses snapped in two
Here a knife and there a fork
Philip this naughty work
Table and all so bare, Ah!
Poor Papa and Poor Mamma
Look quite cross, and wonder how
They shall make their dinner now.