Like corporate annual reports,
Odes to summer, are, I confess,
Not among my favourite thoughts;
They're things I write under duress.
But having decided I would write one,
I sit, sweating, with pursed lips,
Should I make it funny, a light one?
Glib, nonsensical, even - gasp - flip?
(Alas! I'm using up the quota
Of lines the classic sonnet permits.
I wouldn't mind if it was shorter.
A full fourteen lines can be the pits.
Only two more lines? What a bummer!)
Oh well. Here's my poem: I hate summer.
Written (in a bus, in a bout of self-loathing at not having written anything that wasn't work for ages) for, and read at, Caferati's Bombay Summer read-meet.