There lived a boy in Panchgani,
who was perpetually falling short of money,
he had a day job of peeling corn off the cob,
and filling the waste in bags of gunny.
He counted the kernels of corn,
as from the thick shaft they were torn,
and filled baskets for the manor born,
whose dining table they would adorn.
He looked for inspiration in his work,
never his duties he would shirk,
at the supervisor never smirk
how much ever his chain did he jerk.
But all that was for naught,
for all that his salary bought,
was one meal and a simple cot,
which was in a shed which got very hot.
His hard work did not pay,
as at the end of every day,
his supervisor would say,
he’d get more money only by May.
So to the misery of life he clung,
on sad days, psalms he sung,
on festivals, a single flower not garlands were hung,
and instead of coal for heat used dung.
Come May he stood with hands spread,
in hope would increase his daily bread,
by this boring job to which he was wed,
when his supervisor solemnly said.
You have done well but we have not,
Haven’t sold as much corn as we thought,
Half of our stock has begun to rot,
be thankful for this job that you still have got.
But the boy raged and chaffed of anger did reek,
with a new found hunger the lad did speak,
appearing suddenly not so meek,
literally foaming at the beak.
Appraised of the scenario, why wasn’t I,
why did you let me live on bread dry,
why not stop me looking at the sky,
when there wasn’t any way you’d let me fly?
I ask for a raise for work that’s done,
and not that which hasn’t begun,
so why my demands do you now shun?
It’s not as if I ask for the Sun?
The supervisor tried to put the boy at ease,
Of self pity he applied a little grease,
If only you’d listen to me please,
What can I do if people now are into peas?