P hardly sees his failures.
Despite his efforts to hinder.
Practising to become an artiste,
All he achieved was discord
That grated on his neighbours’ nerves,
As he played the violin with resonance.
But not a tome could he write;
He still has this fervour though,
That he would soon win the Booker.
Not just in arts but in work and life,
Success still evades him.
He carries on blissfully,
Oblivious of all his failures.
If you ask how his successes
Were spiced by his failures,
He would turn around and ask you
“What in the world is failure?”
Eating fiery chillies, at first,
May burn your tongue and tum.
If you eat them again and again?
The punch is gone, it’s bland and plain!
Folks who know P well believe, this is what has happened to him! Poor P can’t sense his failures any more!