It was a march anyhow,
Not an army trot anyhow,
Nor a fashion show anyhow,
Very much different somehow.
The eager wait prolongs,
Honourable guests are not seen along,
Punctuality is tripped so long,
Confining the crowd not to drift along.
The eyes rove over,
Nothing glamorous appears all over,
Not able to view beauties from world over,
It was patience made over.
Towards the right two jump across,
On the left a group of five cross,
In the middle little ones toss,
Depicting a lively display in a gloss.
They have a coat of black,
A broad white stripe in the pack,
Snorting with a peculiar quack,
They march ahead in a merry track.
The parade is not orderly,
The dainty gait looks lovely,
The non rhythmic steps are funny slightly,
Yet they captivate us wholly.
The blue waters flow to the shore,
The orange Sun goes down into the floor,
Black lights up the sky in a quiet score,
The little dark Penguins gather in store.
Up they ascend in a hurry,
Hastening to see the babes in a flurry,
Peeping into their habitats with worry,
They flock reverse in an undue hurry.
It is a parade with a difference anyhow,
It happens every night almost anyhow,
It undergoes no rehearsals anyhow,
Yet it is a delightful Parade somehow
Meenas Poems 