The Last Strand Of The British Empire in Lucknow





 he is standing there forgotten by those who left him...on native soil.. oh how his blood boils
the thought away from home away from snow he recoils
standing at the british residency without pay leave gratuity
he toils ,,catches the flu dengue his white alabaster body
riddled with boils ,,every night he watches whores getting
fucked under the moonlight as he pukes smelling their body oils ..his dreams spoiled

to my dear friend meld
who inspired this poem ..
from the soul of turmoil

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