Maharajah

There was shine within brass,

gold that was not,

and aquamarine glass',

with porcelain pots,

beneath ivory smiles

drinking whiskey shots,

those who beguile

in green eyed thoughts,

and quitely file

away oe'r beds

of forget-me-nots.



It was not dreams,

nor quiet hope

of smoky seams

of powdered dope,

but without reality

it seems......



Each step touched nothing

grasping the brass rail,

my head crasihing and banging

my body ,so frail,

running away from ringing,

blasting bells.



Then the steady twang

of moaning Citars

and the palace doors bang,

forever closed

to past maharajahs fame,

there are no Tigers left

nor emeralds shine

and no more concubines.



The crocodiles lie upon the palazzos

and leaves blow thru the lattice doors

there are no more intermezzos

of british manners that bore.

Good bye to the past

and march into the future,

all misty and unsure,

with each step we salute you

and fade into the fog

over the morning Gangees.

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