Man with all the joys

Man with all the joys

Amongest crowd
He is peculiar,
For the world he is blur

On face expressions of mirth
Never sad on death
Never happy on birth

Laughing at gruesome facts
Never affectedby gruelling tacts

Empty eyes pearing people
Asperity of life
Making them appal

Food shelter and clothing
For him nothing is luring

His only love
Pufs of smoke
A packet of cigratte
A treasure to provoke

Love and hatered meaningless
Rebuking everything
in a state of mess
A man bestowed with dead sense
Around feelings a strong callus

King by heart
Happy in his own niche
No grudges with poor no malice with rich

We call him insane
We call him mad
Heis having joys whic we never had

Dear a person with sensibility
is always in burden of integrity
divested from being happy
if not under insanity