I went to an elderly gentleman's house
to give him a copy of my poetry magazine.
He said, "come to this evening's poetry session".
I said, "how can I go uninvited?"
"I am inviting you", he said.
"Let me see, if I can make it", I said,
knowing fully well that I would never go,
because he was surely not the organiser.
The malice mill was at it again, I thought.
Who could it be, I wondered.
But did not give any more thought to it.
Such social ripples do not perturb me anymore.
That you are on a winning track becomes evident
when the malice mill works hard.
I know now quite well now,
current adulations are more likely
inversely proportional to one’s real worth.
Wine is actually dearer on maturation.