An innocuous is quite objectionable
For living somehow in a forest-
Quite a haughty in whispering
In the ears of an innocent
‘’Might is right’’
And in showing its sharp nailed paws
And burning eyes to him
To turn his days into scary nights.
‘’Is he too stoic to be reformed ?’’
A philanthropist with a lamp in hand
Asks the mirror
But dies leaving the question unanswered
And the lamp extinguished.
In the darkness
A consequent narcotic solo
Reverberates in the forest,
Makes it drowsy
And bewitches the innocuous too
To produce breads, ladders, toys and others
For the heart-quaking wild whisperers.