Once upon a time,
A poet had started to rhyme,
He wrote ten poems,
About xylem and phloems,
And then he commited a crime.Of topics, he ran out,
Depressed, he started to shout,
But his protest went unheard,
By every man and bird,
No one cared what his despair was about.He thus wrote down today’s date,
To decide his unknown fate,
But an idea struck him,
That took away his grim,
He was the happiest, he could bet.Under the Sun of scorching May,
He took an ‘untaken’ way,
He thought of Frost,
In his thought he was lost,
He wrote, “Today is Wednesday”.His poem’s name became the same,
He can’t deny he liked the game,
This is a true story,
Because he is me,
Arkadeep is his name!
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