Aashish demands his poetry.
He wants to be more known.
He wishes for more links to be sent to his telephone.
“Write of me!” He thus insists, and that, he thinks, is that,
no doubt, suspecting his command will paint him as a prat.

But still, the boy will get his wish, for who denies his smile?
Who refuses such a face that whines that long a while?
Aashish will get his rhymes in time. They’ll be delivered quick.
But the next poem he receives will come by way of brick.