Azim drives a rigshaw.
Azim's dreams are limitless.
Azim fiends(?) for Englishness.
Wait until his MBA finishes:
He'll peddle his rigshaw to Paris, in his
Sensible trousers, with his
Impeccable manners.
And Azim drives a rigshaw.
He's piss poor,
And he can't afford
The summer he's forking out for.
For who though?
He's paying for you and me, hun;
Us two money-, muddy-headed couple of heathens,
Who shoot looks at each other struggling for reasons
Why anybody would do something so decent.—
Azim folds his napkin.
Azim doesn't drink,
Pushes out chair,
Stands
And gives a sudden glimpse,
Of a vast-hearted, grand-mannered, stubborn chimp,
Son of 600 years of shit-shovelling underlings.
Azim conjures wonderment.
No pot to piss in.—
Stop though. Shit bro'.
My wallets missing …

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