Itching to write or writing to itch? Well, both. So here, a poem on spurrrrr of the moment-
"She was thrilled of things she make, irrelevance to spices,
he was keen, on things he shape, irrespective of consequences
They built nothing, but an ark of paper. nor shelter, warmth & sans comfort
It squashed when rain, squeezed when folded & screeched when trapped.
"She was thrilled of things she make, irrelevance to spices,
he was keen, on things he shape, irrespective of consequences
They built nothing, but an ark of paper. nor shelter, warmth & sans comfort
It squashed when rain, squeezed when folded & screeched when trapped.