Spawned is a creature in a gilded cradle,
Utmost care taken to keep it merry,
Even in instances of a bris or a mundan,
Or the taste of the sweetness of jaggery,
From a golden thimble, on a silver spoon,
Rejoicing, the spawners in shady attire,
Unbecoming of their thrifty existence,
After all it's one beautiful golden egg,
Wrapped in a quilt and warmer hugs,
The capital of the new enterprise,
Amidst shams would probably rise above,
The heads of the happy, cheerful revelers,
To transform to the comforting, homely shade,
To shield them from the dubious eyes,
The directors of other such enterprises,
To cast a superstitious, evil eye,
A blackish feline on the balance-sheet,
Almost accurate figures of erroneous calculations,
Of the ideas of credit and debit,
Gone irreversibly, horrendously wrong,
Of credits and unrealistic expectation charts,
The 'targets' in jargonic accuracy,
Each pimple absolved on the face of the enterprise,
An obvious rise in the targets set,
Every green-stained report card home,
Aghast and shattered, A certain dive,
The colourful building blocks of youth,
Gradually built the heaving behemoth,
Six-foot tall and head full o' hair,
The barter of life holds every breath,
The final judgement of credit and debit,
The ideal zero and probable profits loom large,
At the frayed ends of their sanity,
And with the strikes of the judgement bell,
Bated breaths now sighs of relief,
As the balance-sheet now tallied to show,
Definite success shines in the pearly whites,
Of the spawners of the enterprise,
Who now shelve mementos of their tryst,
Encased in ubiquitous glasses of shame,
A preserved prepuce and locks of hair,
Tinged golden in some dream of mine,
Still soft as a strand of Kancheepuram silk,
And a jaded trophy of a balance-sheet.
