The days are getting longer.
Weather’s getting hot.
Aashish’s starting to suspect
he’s something that he’s not;
a rhymer or a jester or a wizard
or a seer.
Pouring over lines like a poet
without peer:
just thinking he can ape the
contoured stylings of a master
as if his new experience was
somehow somewhat vaster.
Though improvements of vocab
are something certainly to shout,
is it of such significance that
he has to spout it
to the weirdos and the waitress and
the walls at this time?
The energy at which he’s
evinced all his unrhymes
seems to some, a bit decidedly
opportunistic.
Forgive me, then if I then sound eristic.