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| Yama and Harley Davidson (Pastels and paper) |
People died in all possible ways:
Suicide, homicide, genocide, bedside...
Tear-eyed, pop-eyed, wide-eyed they died.
Transporting souls became a problem.
For
Yama’s bull lived on angavastrams
and Lady Death’s Harley Davidson
guzzled gas by gallons.
Fuel-strapped.
Souls remained stranded.
Without entry to hell
or Heaven even!
Yama and Lady accepted
why dead people pasted
smiles on their doors.
As thumbing their dead noses
the souls’ murmurs roared.
The duo ran out of ruses.
“Souls are like plastic:
non-biodegradable, shamelessly elastic,”
they despaired!
“However, recyclable!” they cried!
“Lets teach a lesson to those who died!
Let them remain Earth’s bona-fide
Saves transport
and scrutiny of passports!”
“The Karmas can their souls smell,
so let’s match them well...”
Politicians’ went to vermins’ bodies.
Got
swatted, baygon-sprayed ad-libitum.
Baam bole gnat!
Teachers’ to frogs’ and toads’,
preachers to howling wolves’,
middlemen got after-eating hyenas
Thinkers one-legged cranes...
Bats’ drew insomniacs ,
Singers’ crows and banshees...
Doctors and lawyers got sharks’
None lost their Karma’s spark!
And thus, the soul-load dwindled.
But two still got sidled.
Miss Universe and the actor.
Yama and Lady leered a once-over.
“Single souls...hmmm...enough space,” they hover.
Side saddle the beauty rode,
in arms of Yama, on his bull bestrode.
The macho hero rode pillion
Lady driving. Airborne, gone
all the way to Heaven!
