There lived long years hence a sage mendicant,
To him came a village inhabitant,
Who pleaded how his place terrorised was
By a venomous mouth biting sans cause;
The holy him, adjured snake not to bite,
To rise yon nature his habit to fight.
Years later when the holy man returned,
He found tables had a full circle turned:
The snake badly beaten, hunted more than in hunt,
Oath blindly held, lesson not duly learnt;
Oh, what happened my child, as the sage spake,
Somewhat hesitant said the dying snake:
I stopped biting, being bad, as was told,
They battered me freed of fear, newly bold.
The sage said shaking head in disbelief,
Here’s my child how to heel from thine grief:
I had told ye to stop biting,
Did I e’er stop thee from hissing?
But I have an odd takeout to take
From what this story might to us bake:
If humour were to reach its height,
It should just hiss short of a bite.
No one marooned is on a barren isle,
Nor is the world a burial ground; do smile;
Humour is hiss undue pressure to salve,
As is a pressure-cooker’s safety valve
To let off unwanted steam— by laughing,
To soothe the stressful minds from exploding!
Aniruddha Pathak
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/humour-s-a-pressure-cooker-valve/
