Illiterate quill and soul, without insight
Once wrote a book, lacking in its conscience.
Tears and smiles, love and frustrations,
Melodrama and myths were packed inside.
A flamboyant cover, depicting the body language
Of voluptuous beauties adorned the front.
Sex and violence, sex orgies and sex abuses,
Gays and lesbians were the heroes and heroines.
Ample writes up, in vintage magazines
Carried curtain raisers for the launching
Of the book, by the renowned publisher.
First edition sold like hot cakes and
Print orders for two more editions
Were at hand; all went well…
Later I met ‘him’ at a wayside book shop
Prowling among the book racks.
A corpse, devoid of the glamour, once he had;
Time changed and new beauties outwitted him.
Tastes of the populace changed and he could not
Write what is demanded, and lost in the battle.
The publisher made a fortune, splitting awards
And prize money with the author.
Now he is discarded! No fanfare!
No more impressive reviews!
It died a natural death, with the author.
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