Darling’s sting,
Yet we face.
Be it monsoon,
Or November’s grace.
Nets and vests,
All in shambles.
In sleepless nights,
Everyone scrambles.
Lights and tube-lights,
On its fumble.
Darling’s almost,
Prepared to mumble.
Melodious it sings,
A song in slumber.
Bites it everywhere,
Without being humble.
Never it distinguishes,
Aunty or Uncle.
Gives a tough time,
In home or jungle.
Remember it’s high time,
To make it crumble.
Otherwise jumps up,
And swiftly assembles.
Corona, the virus,
Has made us mental.
Forgetting all darling’s,
Redly and deadly scandals.
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