How you make the Melody

The sweet tones of the piano,
Which set up the mood.
Add a shaker, and bongos,
To which the listeners groove.

But make sure that your sound is fresh,
It hasn't been heard before.
Or else, the troubles of copyright, knock your door.

The Orphan

The cuckoo chirping melodius tones,

The brook, meandering merrily.

The sky was a brilliant azure,

And I was singing a melancholy.

My friends told me tales of joy, 

When they were in a pleasant mood.

But, I, being a morose, sad, boy,

Cried and stod aloof.

The weather was jolly, 

The season was bonny, 

With flowers all blooming.

But I, instead of being happy,

Stood still, my knees bent down, brooding.

I was the orphan, of the orphanage,

My home was long lost.

In the great fire of the forest, in the fiery rage.

My sweet, little home was lost.

My heart has undergone various scrars and scratches,

My parents are gone, leaving behind, just ashes...

Who am I?

Who am I, my identity is lost,
With the society, I am cross.
If I try to mix up with people, who they say are majority,
I am called a chinki and left, aloof, lonely.

I am discrimated, I am beaten up,
The society’s chains have strangled me.
After meeting me, people bathe with cow dung, (gobar)
Shudra, untouchable, they call me.

People of India, why discriminate?
Why create a class?
When you can live united,
And spread equality amss.