applelitis
Exactly.
A bad marriage is a bad concept.
Live with a rotten apendix and smell like a bad apple.
Live your life with remote controls being thrown at the nirvanic
(haha) position that you have carved for yourself, year after year,
creating deep impressions on the cheap, local foam used on your family
couch and this is what you get. You develop a bad-applelitis.
With developments in the free trade angles, you are forced to compete
with green ones with stickers pasted on them, screaming: Not desi, but
Aussie.
Now, now…how do you beat the fresh, the young, the green and the
reds? After all, you are a bad apple.
You hike to the doctor’s and all he offers you is a knife.
Remedy: chop your flesh, grate it, mince it, mix it with Pran and
there you go…you are a pie made with a little bit of rotting yeast
and the ever harmful dash of the baking powder that qualifies to grace
the carom boards.
That’s right. You eat what you play with.
You play powder, you swallow it too.
Fake flesh, form and flavour
And become the cranapple of the season.
Cranberries always fancied your tradition.
No harm in bedding an old flame, after all, right?
Woman…what are we doing after all?
Are we all not covering footprints of our own slaves?
Are we not all flames,
Dodged by mistletoes,
Duped by vendors
Promising fair trade
Flaunting the Sale
Of a precious item
And yet, why do you have that smile,
You indexable, sale worthy woman?
