Ode to the brave little souls
The ones who are beaten, bruised
Their eyes are pools of sorrow, despair
Their little hearts, once innocent, now refused

They may be small, they may not talk
Rest assured though, they remember
They may be down trodden, even broken
But I will make them whole by the end of November

Their deep brown eyes, melting hearts
Their cowering demeanours, at every gesture
They back away yet wish to approach
Their wounds, though unseen, seem to fester

Is it not basic right to be obscene
Not a reversion to a cursing teen
And certainly not a foul mouth has-been
Rather a bleeping lean and mean machine

Need a damn Obscene Spelling Bee sorely
With no age limit for the constituents
That’s one hell of an idea surely
To enhance the profanity quotients

No need to be a monastic sourpuss
There is really nothing to discuss
Do not understand the self-righteous fuss
Just let go the inhibitions and cuss

She is lost to her shopping
Rooms of shoes to be worn once or twice
Instantly bored of her sunglasses
She needs new bathrobes today.

The masses bleed for compassion,
Babies torn from a mother’s breast
Screaming in foreigners’ arms
O soft spoken beauty
This was your Evita moment
To spread your magic fashion smile.

If you could shed a tear
On your high Slavic cheeks
And wave your wand! All,
All will adore you!

As sparrows trip to my window sill
and chirp before the sun is up,
I feel then like I'd let my quill
to fill with music my morning's cup.
So soft and sweet, with tender tweet
they touch my heart with a special joy,
and no matter how is down the beat,
the tweets are sure to pack up the coy.

The melodies grow to magical tunes,
till unfurls the sun on the sandy dunes.