a poem by Devarajan R

We were in great pleasure, it deserves some praise
We play, we love in our early days
Those days were touching
And our hearts were filled nothing but joy

We use to color the neighbours wall
And show our painting skill
The very name we paint is
Existing still

In classroom we studied nothing but mischiefs
We have launched many paper missiles
To our teachers head

We did mockery in absence of our teacher
Dance, sing, and play
And show our professionalism in mischief

Those pleasing joy excites other
Such a retrospect of our own delight
Such pleasure we will not obtain
Our innocent sweet simple years
Will not turn again