Reader, I killed him

A whiff of vanaspati captured in my lunch box
Mother packed her love,father a new pair o' socks.
Its a sunny day, I am off to capital city,
Looked outside the bus, the roads were shitty,
Oh then I had to pee, Oh then I had to pee.

We two stood outside metro, no police in sight 
We took out our penis in a delight,
The bladder contracted, discharge came out,
Suddenly, our ears could hear a shout.
Oh I have to pee, Oh I have to pee.

A rickshaw puller, about ye high
told us how we should not pee, but comply
with some 'rules', I didn't understand,
how relieving yourself was a contempt.
Oh I had to pee, Oh I had to pee.

The crowd booed us, we had to leave,
but the embarrassment I felt, I was in peeve,
I got drunk, then I got mad,
I phoned my pals, we caught that lad.
'Cause he won't let me pee, 'Cause he wont let me pee.

We beat him up, we thrashed him down,
He begged a mercy, we gave him a frown.
We left him a pulp, we ran away
He kicked the bucket on hospital's way.
Oh I simply had to pee, Oh I simply had to pee.

And now I've finished my forty year-sentence,
Whole of my youth, spent in repentance.
And this is my story,(I said weeping,
my head is down, my body is quivering)
Oh Why I had to pee? Oh Why I had to pee?

Sonnet II: Often the mind reflect upon mundane

Often the mind reflect upon mundane,
and think which act precedes the other?
Is writing without reading a nature's arraign?
Or reading sans writing a sap-head's error. 

Behold the task of writing for instance,
A poet's soul dances upon ivory sheet. 
Never done in void, nor in abundance,
Art of mere mimicry,'tis art neat. 

Reading too, is an art splendid,O hear,
Absorbing ancient words, through sight,
But read too much, and you'll fear,
of losing your genuine thought's flight. 

So Read in one clock, and create in another, O bard
For 'tis the only glorious and golden path. 

Sonnet I: No macabre account of disease-ridden lovers

No macabre account of disease-ridden lovers, 
Nor of their sad, untimely demise,
Where one or the other is left to suffer,
And sobbing is sole fate of eyes. 

No triumph-tale of a bourgeois financer,
No 'one idea can change the world',
No narratives of celebrity cancer,
and their journey unfurled.

Oh bring me back the verse of bard,
Or chronicles of the things bygone,
Of myths, monsters and magnitude canard,
And laments for the poor Adon.

For as long as these tales will be uttered,
The eternal joy in mind cannot be altered.