Someone asked, what was I doing,
with a pen and a paper plain.
I replied , "I am writing thoughts
arranged in rhymes." and,
"A poem it is", I continued to explain.
He said," stop it."..
"it's only a work of shame."
and advised me to do something
that provides a name and a fame.
Politely I replied him,
"I've already got a name."
and in this race of getting fame,
I don't wanna be a cattle,
so dumb and so lame.
He defended, and made a question,
asking ,"What will you ever gain..?"
Thoughts moved for once,
utmost in the speed of a train.
but, soon concluded,
ain't no matter there's no gain,
still i'm sure, i'll never be in pain.
My thoughts, these rhymes,
may even inflame,
a darkest corner of one's soul,
withuot the need of af a flame.
rather furiously, he kept on to claim.
tried to break my spirit,
from all he did acclaim.
With a smell of suggestion he served,
"Don't act dame..",
"try things, that won't let others procclaim."
I was'nt yet tired to tackle..,
heard, what was nothing new to exclaim.
I quoted, "life is like an interesting game".
"Either play your part well,
or be a player, dominated and tame."
Do whatever you like to do,
and never just feel the shame.
And always be kind of ready,
for even to take the blame.
because this is my friend,
what I call, "the game of fame."
