The Voice of Fungus

I like it best here, where it's dingy and grim,
Unperturbed by bright sunlight, in the chambers within.
On unflinching foundations I put down my roots,
Take a rock as my flower bed, and brandish my fruits.

How such a bedrock to be prone to agronomical loss,
It's the rolling stone alone that gathers no moss.

One feels quite at home once one's mould has infested
The gloomy surroundings and progressed uncontested.
It congests, layer on layer, as upwards it crawls,
Like a battalion of ants on the atrium's walls.

That pretty pink lining I soon shall envelop,
As, with a life of their own, my creepers develop.
Suffocating and clogging the once healthy ventricles,
Plugging the tubes with their long, slimy tentacles.

I can't wait till the stench becomes rank and rare mucid,
As decaying flesh threatens to become thoroughly putrid.
Independent of compost, my foliage bursts free—
The Little Shop of Horrors has got nothing on me!

And when the rot has set in, you'll swear false is true;
You'll say, "Do as I say, not as I do."
You'll make arguments explosive, you'll make covenants cheap;
No vow will prove too fragile to keep.

I won't haughtily exhort you, to break those who you've betrothed,
I'll just cultivate pretence with my horticultural growth.
And I promise not to push you towards kufri festivals,
I give you my word, then again, my word's excrable.

Though I don't wither with or without water, I cry crocodile tears.
The sound of my growth,
Is music to your ears.