Bowing to LP-ji
Why we’ll never be short of gas O what’s the matter, Shanta mine So pale and vainly loitering? The veg has withered in your fridge, And no cookers hiss.I see your worried, wrinkled brow,With anguish moist coz dinner’s due;And from your eye a salty tearIs fast falling too. I met a mantri, replied the lass,…