Getting food on the table is easy for me. I walk into a restaurant, pick up the waiting take-out order and put it on the dining table. Some people prefer a more circuitous method called cooking. I strongly maintain that if all humans are meant to cook, we would have evolved with a spatula for a hand. In any case, I have recently been asked to produce macaroni and cheese by my daughter, not by the normal process of getting it from a restaurant but by the infinitely complex process called cooking.
What happened was, my over-ambitous 8 year old daughter promised mac-n-cheese to her friends over evening snacks one day and I was volunteered to fulfill the said promise! In her words, “Mac and cheese is easy. Boil milk. Pour macaroni. Add cheese and serve.” Simple it is! but for some reason, she insisted on me calling her friend's mother. When I didn't oblige, she called her favourite Reena aunty and got the recipe written. For resons best known to her and her Reena aunty, she actually called me up repeated and the recipe atleast 20 times!
The dish may sound simple but the recipe was not. My theory is that when a process involves heating milk to its boiling point, using hot burners and tongs, it should be classified as a chemical experiment rather than a process to produce something edible. Perhaps I should have started with a simpler dish. But as the old adage goes, all’s well that ends well. My cooking certainly ended well and the kids were well-fed and well-nourished.
When Reena came to my place later in the evening (she is my neighbour, after all), I was ready to accept the profusion of encomiums that were in order for the extraordinary job I performed. But no! No accolades. No words of praise. Not even a small gift of appreciation. (Am sure she was jealous!!!)
All she did was look at the dish in which I produced my magnum opus and raise an eyebrow. I waited for the other eyebrow to follow suit but it didn’t. That was not a good sign.
She: (Suspiciously) Why is there ketchup in mac and cheese?
She was in dire need of enlightenment.
Me: When food has a smoky flavor, you nuke it with ketchup
She: It must have tasted awful!
Me: On the contrary, the kids just loved it. (vigorous head-nodding approval from the kids)
She: (Growing more suspicious) Why did the mac-and-cheese have a smoky flavor?
I continued to enlighten her.
Me: Food assumes a smoky flavor when it is burnt
She: You burned MAC-AND-CHEESE? How could anyone burn Mac and cheese! It’s the simplest thing in the world to make!
I would argue with the choice of the word “simple” but it was not the best time for the dissertation of my chemical experiment theory.
Me: It’s not my fault. It’s my daughter's fault.
She: How so?
Me: See, after I put the macaroni in boiling milk, I needed to wait a few minutes for it to cook. So I told Millie (my daughter) to watch it while I cleaned the broken glass in the kids room (thanks to your wicked son! Ofcourse this I couldnot tell Reena). Apparently in her vocabulary, “cooked” means “general texture of bituminous coal”
She: YOU LEFT A 8 YEAR OLD AT THE STOVE!?
Me: I know, she completely blew it. In retrospect I should have watched the pot while she did the cleaning. But hindsight is 20/20.
She couldn’t speak for a few minutes probably mulling over the cogency of my argument.
She: (Resignedly) So the kids ate that charred glob.
Me: Why would I do that? I extracted all matter of certain color and brittleness and disposed it carefully in the trash. Then I doubled the cheese portion to compensate for the lost macaroni.
She: Let me get this straight, the kids basically ate a ball of cheese with ketchup.
Me: Ah, Reena! You make it sound so unappetizing!!!
Monday, May 5, 2008
Love me
I have been waiting for you.
Almost for a year or two.
Sitting patiently at your door.
On this cold dust swept floor.
Oh please, let me in your empty room,
and sweep away the dark and gloom,
Draw the curtains and fill with light
Where there is an eternal night.
Let me hang my poems by your window
Light your evening lamps, your conch shell blow
Complete your night and day
With magical songs and simple play.
But you go up and down these steps, a daily chore,
You often pass me by, yet ignore
And raise a scornful brow
You pretend, me you do not know.
A small opening is all I need
I have no ego, to you I plead
Throw me a small crumb, attention some
Make me feel wanted, a bit welcome.
Once in a while you sit by me, and try
When I tell you my sad tale wry.
You laugh at me and say - be realistic, life is not a play!
Don't waste your time here, just go away
But I still hope, and I stay.
Let me bind you I pray,
my poor ignorant bird, with my ethereal rhythm
You who want to fly away from freedom.
Almost for a year or two.
Sitting patiently at your door.
On this cold dust swept floor.
Oh please, let me in your empty room,
and sweep away the dark and gloom,
Draw the curtains and fill with light
Where there is an eternal night.
Let me hang my poems by your window
Light your evening lamps, your conch shell blow
Complete your night and day
With magical songs and simple play.
But you go up and down these steps, a daily chore,
You often pass me by, yet ignore
And raise a scornful brow
You pretend, me you do not know.
A small opening is all I need
I have no ego, to you I plead
Throw me a small crumb, attention some
Make me feel wanted, a bit welcome.
Once in a while you sit by me, and try
When I tell you my sad tale wry.
You laugh at me and say - be realistic, life is not a play!
Don't waste your time here, just go away
But I still hope, and I stay.
Let me bind you I pray,
my poor ignorant bird, with my ethereal rhythm
You who want to fly away from freedom.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Value Proposition in the New Economy
Before 1970, information was a scarce resource and the underlying potential of facilitating decision making with information was a distant dream to the managers. The fact that information can be captured and distributed across the organization for generation of competitive advantage was evident only during mid-seventies. Information Age lasted approximately for twenty years. Information was not a scarce commodity after that; but the movement of taking the information to knowledge level started around 90s and it still continues to be.
The knowledge economy is also a network economy treating knowledge as a commodity and suggesting that professionals need to work with ideas, information and creativity and new knowledge play the parts of raw materials. Value in this economy does not mean something that the company adds to its shareholders but something that is done in favor of the customer. The performance dimension addresses the degree to which professionals collaborate with others to realize benefits. In this economy, orgnanization combine the main factor of production, human asset in an innovative way to make a profit and the central planners decide how assets are used to provide for maximum benefit to all.
Everyone has to understand value in the new perspective of knowledge economy. Value helps customers produce gain benefit. The right value proposition eliminates price as an objection; it helps in curtailing competition. It is the responsibility of the knowledge professionals to understand and develop his value from the perspective of his customer. Customer actually takes this value to customers' customers to gain profit from open and competitive market. Any activity towards the development of professionals in any organization has to be based on this philosophy. If customers don't get value that is useful to his customers, then the value the professional is now offering to his customers is not valuable to the market in future. Without properly spelling out the value, a price war has to be fought by all.
The knowledge economy is also a network economy treating knowledge as a commodity and suggesting that professionals need to work with ideas, information and creativity and new knowledge play the parts of raw materials. Value in this economy does not mean something that the company adds to its shareholders but something that is done in favor of the customer. The performance dimension addresses the degree to which professionals collaborate with others to realize benefits. In this economy, orgnanization combine the main factor of production, human asset in an innovative way to make a profit and the central planners decide how assets are used to provide for maximum benefit to all.
Everyone has to understand value in the new perspective of knowledge economy. Value helps customers produce gain benefit. The right value proposition eliminates price as an objection; it helps in curtailing competition. It is the responsibility of the knowledge professionals to understand and develop his value from the perspective of his customer. Customer actually takes this value to customers' customers to gain profit from open and competitive market. Any activity towards the development of professionals in any organization has to be based on this philosophy. If customers don't get value that is useful to his customers, then the value the professional is now offering to his customers is not valuable to the market in future. Without properly spelling out the value, a price war has to be fought by all.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Bidding Farewell
I have lived this moment
a million times before it came.
What would I do,Where would I go
When you are gone.
I imagined a soulful poem
Each word a shred of my heart
Each full stop, a wishful sigh.
For words not said,Deeds not done.
But now that we are here,
There is only hollow silence.
No pain for the loss,
Of the loss of feeling.
May be you wanted it this way,
To see happy faces
as you turned back to wave.
So good bye it is.
Be strong, I will be too.
I see you melt into the dusk.
But I know you are smiling now.
a million times before it came.
What would I do,Where would I go
When you are gone.
I imagined a soulful poem
Each word a shred of my heart
Each full stop, a wishful sigh.
For words not said,Deeds not done.
But now that we are here,
There is only hollow silence.
No pain for the loss,
Of the loss of feeling.
May be you wanted it this way,
To see happy faces
as you turned back to wave.
So good bye it is.
Be strong, I will be too.
I see you melt into the dusk.
But I know you are smiling now.
Review of laaga Chunri Mein Daag!
Laga Chunari Mein Daag or “My dress got stained” is not about Monica Lewinsky and Bill Clinton and that white stained dress which almost brought down the American Presidency. No indeed it is not. So what is it then? Well I would characterise Pradeep Sarkar’s latest offering as nothing but the cinematic equivalent of taking that brown-with-age banana that has been sitting on the refrigerator top for ages, cutting it up, putting some fancy ice cream on top and serving it to your mother-in-law while saying with a glittering smile “Look ma, this is a special dish I made just for you.”
There used to be a popular,or should I say done-to-death formula in Bengali movies and also “jatras” (rural open-air theatre) through the 50s to the 90s which would, with minor variations, go something like this. Ailing retired honest father. Evil uncles out to get every last penny. A crumbling palatial house in the village. An always-crying mother doing some kind of repetitive menial work to make ends meet (stiching mostly). And supporting the whole family like a weepy Hercules would be a God-like “elder brother” (best played by that high tension wire of emotions by Sukhen Das who, in the course of the movie, would sacrifice everything to get his younger brother educated or younger sister married (this sacrifice usually entailed making money by pushing brick-laden carts while running a 104 degree fever or some other similar act of heart and body-breaking endurance). Ultimately, due to misunderstandings caused by evil uncle/tartar wife of younger brother/some other agency, he would get denounced by all those whom he had helped by his blood and toil till one day he makes the ultimate sacrifice (usually donation of certain vital organ or death through untreated malady) at which the whole family ultimately realizes his value and amends are made at the deathbed, but not before gallons of tears have flown through the flood-drains.
In “Laga Chunari Mein Daag” we have a similar serially heart-attacking, wallowing in self-pity father played by Anupam Kher (where is Alok Nath when you need him?) while greedy brother’s family tries to dispossess him of his crumbling ancestral house. True to formula, there is the poor mother (Jaya Bachchan) who specializes in sewing petticoats and most of all, in being highly melodramatic. There is the younger bright sister played by Konkona Sen Sharma all “chulbuli and “bulbuli” and towering above them all, is the all-sacrificing Rani Mukherjee playing a female version of the Sukhen Das character. Telling her father “beta chahte the na aap to beta banoongi” (You wanted a son so I will become a son) she comes to the big bad city and no she does not have a sex change operation and become Bobby Darling. Very soon,(actually after just one week of struggle), she realizes that the only way a girl can survive in Mumbai is to sell her…emm…. purity, something poor Sukhen Das could never peddle no matter how much he tried, having to pawn instead a kidney, a liver and a testicle to just get by.
The rest of the story of “Laga Chunari Mein Daag” may be slightly different from the Sukhen Das formula as detailed above but it never ever comes close to a point where you would say “I did not see that coming”. Instead it choses to follow a predictably overwrought path of elevated emotion and beatific saintliness. Hoary (not whorey) cliches abound—- the innocence of the village girl (Banaras being a village is a slight stretch) who, even after becoming a city-dweller, still recites the Hanuman Chalisa with great zeal, the evil of the big city where people are heartless (and horny), the golden-hearted working woman whose body may have become a receptacle of the sins of the moneyed classes but whose mind is still ethereal .
Of course, in keeping with the tastes of the multiplexes, the cliches are wrapped in a Gen Next wrapper: the “Aaao babuji Banaras ki teekhi paan pesh karti hoon aap ke liye” proposal of the kothewali madam as she hands over the reluctant belle to the client with a garland wrapped round his hand being replaced by a more contemporary aesthetic of Harsh Chaya, a call center boss, saying to the innocent heroine: “I am a lonely man and why don’t you stay the night with me?”
Of course a normal director would have left it here. But Pradeep Sarkar, being a top-class proponent of the celluloid art makes things more symbolic: as the lusty Harsh Chayya makes the sexual proposition he is shown playing with a Newton’s cradle where the balls oscillating in simple harmonic fashion is not without deeper significance in the context of the scene. Similarly pregnant in meaning is when Harsh Chayya and Rani Mukherjee’s act of coupling is intercut with scenes of Jaya Bachchan sewing hard. Mention must also be made of the sequence in which Harsh Chaya, topless and in full cry, is seen looming in front of the camera saying “You are so beautiful”. As his lips descend to kiss the lens, even the most heartless of us are forced to turn our eyes away from the screen, stung by the anguish of the poor dear caught in the headlights of Harsh Chaya’s exposed nipples.
However my favorite moment of “Laga Chunari Mein Daag” is when in a passage of searing melodrama, Konkona Sen Sharma tells her mother “Jee bharke ro” (Cry to your heart’s content).
It was then, that as a member of the audience I totally connected with the movie, coming this close to shouting out in Anupam Kherian anguish “Yes yes crying to my heart’s content is exactly what I have been doing ever since the goddamned movie started”
There used to be a popular,or should I say done-to-death formula in Bengali movies and also “jatras” (rural open-air theatre) through the 50s to the 90s which would, with minor variations, go something like this. Ailing retired honest father. Evil uncles out to get every last penny. A crumbling palatial house in the village. An always-crying mother doing some kind of repetitive menial work to make ends meet (stiching mostly). And supporting the whole family like a weepy Hercules would be a God-like “elder brother” (best played by that high tension wire of emotions by Sukhen Das who, in the course of the movie, would sacrifice everything to get his younger brother educated or younger sister married (this sacrifice usually entailed making money by pushing brick-laden carts while running a 104 degree fever or some other similar act of heart and body-breaking endurance). Ultimately, due to misunderstandings caused by evil uncle/tartar wife of younger brother/some other agency, he would get denounced by all those whom he had helped by his blood and toil till one day he makes the ultimate sacrifice (usually donation of certain vital organ or death through untreated malady) at which the whole family ultimately realizes his value and amends are made at the deathbed, but not before gallons of tears have flown through the flood-drains.
In “Laga Chunari Mein Daag” we have a similar serially heart-attacking, wallowing in self-pity father played by Anupam Kher (where is Alok Nath when you need him?) while greedy brother’s family tries to dispossess him of his crumbling ancestral house. True to formula, there is the poor mother (Jaya Bachchan) who specializes in sewing petticoats and most of all, in being highly melodramatic. There is the younger bright sister played by Konkona Sen Sharma all “chulbuli and “bulbuli” and towering above them all, is the all-sacrificing Rani Mukherjee playing a female version of the Sukhen Das character. Telling her father “beta chahte the na aap to beta banoongi” (You wanted a son so I will become a son) she comes to the big bad city and no she does not have a sex change operation and become Bobby Darling. Very soon,(actually after just one week of struggle), she realizes that the only way a girl can survive in Mumbai is to sell her…emm…. purity, something poor Sukhen Das could never peddle no matter how much he tried, having to pawn instead a kidney, a liver and a testicle to just get by.
The rest of the story of “Laga Chunari Mein Daag” may be slightly different from the Sukhen Das formula as detailed above but it never ever comes close to a point where you would say “I did not see that coming”. Instead it choses to follow a predictably overwrought path of elevated emotion and beatific saintliness. Hoary (not whorey) cliches abound—- the innocence of the village girl (Banaras being a village is a slight stretch) who, even after becoming a city-dweller, still recites the Hanuman Chalisa with great zeal, the evil of the big city where people are heartless (and horny), the golden-hearted working woman whose body may have become a receptacle of the sins of the moneyed classes but whose mind is still ethereal .
Of course, in keeping with the tastes of the multiplexes, the cliches are wrapped in a Gen Next wrapper: the “Aaao babuji Banaras ki teekhi paan pesh karti hoon aap ke liye” proposal of the kothewali madam as she hands over the reluctant belle to the client with a garland wrapped round his hand being replaced by a more contemporary aesthetic of Harsh Chaya, a call center boss, saying to the innocent heroine: “I am a lonely man and why don’t you stay the night with me?”
Of course a normal director would have left it here. But Pradeep Sarkar, being a top-class proponent of the celluloid art makes things more symbolic: as the lusty Harsh Chayya makes the sexual proposition he is shown playing with a Newton’s cradle where the balls oscillating in simple harmonic fashion is not without deeper significance in the context of the scene. Similarly pregnant in meaning is when Harsh Chayya and Rani Mukherjee’s act of coupling is intercut with scenes of Jaya Bachchan sewing hard. Mention must also be made of the sequence in which Harsh Chaya, topless and in full cry, is seen looming in front of the camera saying “You are so beautiful”. As his lips descend to kiss the lens, even the most heartless of us are forced to turn our eyes away from the screen, stung by the anguish of the poor dear caught in the headlights of Harsh Chaya’s exposed nipples.
However my favorite moment of “Laga Chunari Mein Daag” is when in a passage of searing melodrama, Konkona Sen Sharma tells her mother “Jee bharke ro” (Cry to your heart’s content).
It was then, that as a member of the audience I totally connected with the movie, coming this close to shouting out in Anupam Kherian anguish “Yes yes crying to my heart’s content is exactly what I have been doing ever since the goddamned movie started”
Monday, October 29, 2007
Confused Men!
First I wanted a fair oval face,
Black silken hair to run my fingers through,
Soft lips to caress, a smooth neck to kiss,
Deep eyes that compelled poetry.
But she wasn't the woman for me.
Then I looked for the talented kind,
One that would sing like a nightingale,
Solve calculus in a jiffy,
Discuss with passion, Keats and Dante
But no, she wasn't the woman for me.
Then I went the practical way,
And looked for a wife,
A housekeeper and cook
A good mother for my children to be,
But she still wasn't the woman for me.
Now in my long unending quest
I am tired, spent and forty.
What a perfect woman looks like
I still have no clue.
And frankly, any woman will do.
Black silken hair to run my fingers through,
Soft lips to caress, a smooth neck to kiss,
Deep eyes that compelled poetry.
But she wasn't the woman for me.
Then I looked for the talented kind,
One that would sing like a nightingale,
Solve calculus in a jiffy,
Discuss with passion, Keats and Dante
But no, she wasn't the woman for me.
Then I went the practical way,
And looked for a wife,
A housekeeper and cook
A good mother for my children to be,
But she still wasn't the woman for me.
Now in my long unending quest
I am tired, spent and forty.
What a perfect woman looks like
I still have no clue.
And frankly, any woman will do.
Saturday, October 27, 2007
The Lass
Far away in the woods,
In a long ago time
I loved a pretty lass
Oh! She was mine.
Her eyes were two endless pools,
Lips pure honey.
You could not buy a smile like hers
For all the king’s money.
She walked fearless, nimble,
With wild curls and unbraided hair
She was nature’s daughter
I a mortal, mere.
The birds flocked to her
When she set a tune on the hill
I was a city cad,
But she loved me still.
Why she favoured me so
I never quite knew.
She was life and she was blood
And my talents sadly few
Perhaps she loved my books,
The clever talk and smart ways.
She clapped her hands at my poor jokes,
How sweet and happy were those days.
But a fool was I
Nothing could still my mind.
Doubt wrapped like black plague
No reason could it bind.
How she could love
A man such as me,
When princes and nobles of many lands
Could hers surely be?
And what if I was a village bum
With nothing bright to say,
Would she love me still?
She laughed and teasing me, ran away.
With distrust I recoiled
When she gently touched me now
Strange questions I asked her
My good lass, I troubled her how.
Slowly darkness set in those happy eyes
They grew sad and deep.
At my curious madness,
They could only sigh and weep.
At last I broke her heart in full.
And the magnificient dame
disappeared into the woods
The way she came.
Before she left,
She laughed sadly and said,
I did not love your smile,
Or your hair as you loved mine.
I did not love your books,
the way you loved my looks.
I did not love your wit
The way you loved my dimple pits.
My poor, unhappy lover.
I loved you for you!
Far away in the woods,
In a long ago time
I loved a pretty lass
Alas! She was almost mine.
In a long ago time
I loved a pretty lass
Oh! She was mine.
Her eyes were two endless pools,
Lips pure honey.
You could not buy a smile like hers
For all the king’s money.
She walked fearless, nimble,
With wild curls and unbraided hair
She was nature’s daughter
I a mortal, mere.
The birds flocked to her
When she set a tune on the hill
I was a city cad,
But she loved me still.
Why she favoured me so
I never quite knew.
She was life and she was blood
And my talents sadly few
Perhaps she loved my books,
The clever talk and smart ways.
She clapped her hands at my poor jokes,
How sweet and happy were those days.
But a fool was I
Nothing could still my mind.
Doubt wrapped like black plague
No reason could it bind.
How she could love
A man such as me,
When princes and nobles of many lands
Could hers surely be?
And what if I was a village bum
With nothing bright to say,
Would she love me still?
She laughed and teasing me, ran away.
With distrust I recoiled
When she gently touched me now
Strange questions I asked her
My good lass, I troubled her how.
Slowly darkness set in those happy eyes
They grew sad and deep.
At my curious madness,
They could only sigh and weep.
At last I broke her heart in full.
And the magnificient dame
disappeared into the woods
The way she came.
Before she left,
She laughed sadly and said,
I did not love your smile,
Or your hair as you loved mine.
I did not love your books,
the way you loved my looks.
I did not love your wit
The way you loved my dimple pits.
My poor, unhappy lover.
I loved you for you!
Far away in the woods,
In a long ago time
I loved a pretty lass
Alas! She was almost mine.
Pearls
It is no place for tears
Where not prized.
Oh no, do not waste those precious pearls
On a waste land dry.
In hope there might bloom a flower some day.
For a land barren
Will stay thus sans rain.
And it has no use
For a few drops of salt.
Where not prized.
Oh no, do not waste those precious pearls
On a waste land dry.
In hope there might bloom a flower some day.
For a land barren
Will stay thus sans rain.
And it has no use
For a few drops of salt.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Strangers
Tell me dearest,
If we were strangers all over again
Could we go back to the beginning,
Forget the pain?
To that time, when you looked at me
And I pretended I did not care.
Did you know how long I stared at the road
Once you were gone from there?
Or to that time when you stood hours
for a glimpse
Knowing that the wait
was only deliberate.
To that time when I wet your chest,
With the storm in my heart
And thanked heavens
For your warm shoulders.
My only anchor and relief.
Could we walk slowly this time?
And avoid the dark potholes
On this rugged road?
Check our basic urges
and curb the bitter words we once uttered
Could we really save us from ourselves?
May be it is worth a try and how!
Because could we be any more strangers
than what we are now?
If we were strangers all over again
Could we go back to the beginning,
Forget the pain?
To that time, when you looked at me
And I pretended I did not care.
Did you know how long I stared at the road
Once you were gone from there?
Or to that time when you stood hours
for a glimpse
Knowing that the wait
was only deliberate.
To that time when I wet your chest,
With the storm in my heart
And thanked heavens
For your warm shoulders.
My only anchor and relief.
Could we walk slowly this time?
And avoid the dark potholes
On this rugged road?
Check our basic urges
and curb the bitter words we once uttered
Could we really save us from ourselves?
May be it is worth a try and how!
Because could we be any more strangers
than what we are now?
Easy Love
She paints you a picture and you say wow!
You long to touch her heart and how!!
Oh I know how!!!
You talk of her and I listen resigned
How each time,
You walk those holy stairs
To bow your head at her shrine.
And there are always a few more to climb
A few more steps to climb.
The path is long and unending,
Yet you hear her laughter sublime.
Distant as in stormy seas, the elusive beacon,
And hopeful, you prod on.
On and on.
She’s an enigma, she dances like a dream,
Her face is an angel, eyes lit with crazy gleam.
She’s the woman you want, the woman you cannot get.
And yet,
She is the woman for you, you bet!
So I sit lonely by my stairs,
And draw circles in dirt.
With a broken twig
Eyes cast down to hide my hurt.
This is all I can draw,
I cannot sing or rhyme.
But look into this true heart of mine.
I have wood for feet, I cannot dance
But won’t you give me a single chance?
But you know I love you
And I love you free.
You know I am easy.
And no one loves an easy lover.
Is that why you don't love me?
You long to touch her heart and how!!
Oh I know how!!!
You talk of her and I listen resigned
How each time,
You walk those holy stairs
To bow your head at her shrine.
And there are always a few more to climb
A few more steps to climb.
The path is long and unending,
Yet you hear her laughter sublime.
Distant as in stormy seas, the elusive beacon,
And hopeful, you prod on.
On and on.
She’s an enigma, she dances like a dream,
Her face is an angel, eyes lit with crazy gleam.
She’s the woman you want, the woman you cannot get.
And yet,
She is the woman for you, you bet!
So I sit lonely by my stairs,
And draw circles in dirt.
With a broken twig
Eyes cast down to hide my hurt.
This is all I can draw,
I cannot sing or rhyme.
But look into this true heart of mine.
I have wood for feet, I cannot dance
But won’t you give me a single chance?
But you know I love you
And I love you free.
You know I am easy.
And no one loves an easy lover.
Is that why you don't love me?
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