I know Purushottam Pingle quite well,
Friends, does the name ring a bell?
From his early days,
Persists to amaze
With the awesome lies he can tell.
With his rabbit teeth and his eyes set apart,
He’s not handsome, nor is he smart.
But the subject of lies
Brings a glint to his eyes,
He’s developed it into a fine art.
‘Truth is a bore’, says he, with conviction,
‘It requires no prior conception,
It pales in compare
With the skill and the care,
Involved in the art of deception.’
‘Why lie?’ said his friend ‘it’s no longer funny,’
Said Pingle, ‘my dear Mahbubani,
Would you rather have rice,
Devoid of all spice
For your dinner, or sumptuous biryani?’
‘The habit of truth is as dull as ditch water!’
Cried Pingle, his cheeks growing hotter,
‘It’s the drab and the dry
Who fight shy of a lie,
I won’t wish it on my enemy’s daughter.’
When the bank was robbed, cops went out of their way,
To locate the man who that day,
Had been there at that time,
And had witnessed the crime,
Who else, but our friend P. Pingle?
‘The thief’, said he, ‘was a strong man,
Who took off in a speeding, long van.’
Pingle lied without fail,
And embroidered his tale
So well, the police caught the wrong man.
The real thief, in relief, turned out so nice-
Of his loot, he gave Pingle a fair slice.
‘I’m rich’ cried Pingle,
‘I knew lies would pay!
I’m so glad that I took my own advice.’