You are the fickle-minded disturbed at inner core,
You want a flirtation spreading out on sea of romance,
yet you flickeringly accept a boat let alone a ship,
the pirates you have dancing in your head,
You long for Los Angeles riding the turbid planes,
You have tumultuous behaviour as who is amongst a saint?
You are a beckoning to politics and flick it in vain,
You are the end of the season yet you celebrate all,
There is hint of fickle in you voice yet you triumph all,
You are the end of civilisation and King of Kings,
The dead weight of boulders weigh on your chest,
Yet you are the dandy all that in age.
You grow of fine age but unlike ripened wine
to the whole of distaste. I call you a dead soldier
who’s killed for hunt of fame.