I in the season of summer making caricature of the writer.
Who when stammering and staggering with words and pen and book, trying to decorate the broken culture.

An old drenched cankey's writer,
Never a shower to take for decades.
Thinking of Reformation and justice.
Nothing good for him than writing.
A line remaining for him to finish yet never ready to live ashores.

I mocked,I spite and yap,
The writer never me minding.

At last, dropping the pen,he yawn and laugh calling it a success.

Mouth wide,I saw his scattering teeth but he was seeing something precious,
An Utopia where justice is not for sale.

Flying home and I in dismay.

Writers are reformers,
Changing the world with their pen

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This Poems Story

Little lad from a broken home sitting himself down where people are enjoying their life. He\'s thinking about his future and planning what to do for survival. He was in need of someone to encourage and nurished him but all he could recieve was ill from passasbye. As Fortune will have it,a way forward to a better life is disclose to him and without minding the rigmaroles of the scorner, he decided to give it a smile and set off for a better future.