My Toy.

I’m almost twenty-one years old.
Already successful, so I am told,
By FB and Twitter
And platforms that matter,
By those around me,
By the channels on tv.

I enjoy things that money can buy, be it yacht, plane or car.
BMW, Audi, Mercedes, Porsche or Jaguar.
Grampi-Gran and Ma, buy me the finest, always.
Don’t settle for anything lesser, is what Papa says.
The other day, the idiot driver, let me snatch the keys
From him when I’d had a drink or five with my buddies.
What a smooth drive it was, along the sea
At Worli,
Until that fellow and his wife suddenly
Came in my way on a scooter. I didn’t see
Them. At their speed, it banged, they banged, into me.
My precious, my car has been scratched, even dented.
That scooter, but garbage, I’m told was rented.
Inconveniently, irresponsibly, that woman, the wife
Of the two-wheeler driver, gave up her life.

Papa phoned the CM, who then phoned the cops,
And told them it definitely was not my fault.
Fetch that bar owner, catch his staff, put a lock.
This very minute get their business to halt.
The boy is not yet twenty-one, I want that owner’s head.
It is they who must pay for this accident, he said.
Papa, he told his PR team to deal with all and sundry.
Pay them, buy them, kill them,
whoever, however,
Just deal with them, said he.

(and...the idiot driver who gave me the keys,
I will bring him to his knees.
He should have known better
Than to let my car hit that scooter.)