He put the helmet,
Started the key,
Held the handle,
And imagined himself,
Riding free.
Riding the Enfield,
He looked imposing,
On the gear, rested his sandal.
Suddenly, it all went grim,
The traffic ahead, decomposing.
He cut through
Walkers with disdain,
Gullies and potholes,
Cars and crammed buses,
Only to be stuck again.
He abused a few,
Rode over the footpath,
And honked the trolls,
Avoiding the crashes,
He rushed with wrath.
He finally reached office,
And he felt like Che.
Ahead of many similar,
The top of the food chain,
This very routine every day.
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