He cries and cries about the drying rains,
Will it ever fill our drains?
He sighs and sighs about the beating heat,
Sitting under the fan on his whirling seat.
Got a job to do,
A mob to shoo,
and an intern too.
What an agitated banker!
But, he has his lores of Delhi to tell,
funny and intriguing are his tales, until
Someone rings his bell, and asks him
If he has any dollars to sell.
I sit opposite him
In state of sleepy dim,
Till morning turns into evening grim.
And then, he gives me a form to fill
which comes along a cheque and bill.
While I am at my job as stated
He walks around with his feet naked.
He sits there with his gloomy face
and does his work with cutting pace
While I sit lost in the world
of birds and rhymes.