With Buddha

I was with Gautama Buddha Sitting side by side under a tree I was upon a velvety cushion And he on a piece of stone Each one's legs were crossed Heads up, spine straight right He was in deep meditation And I engrossed in writing He wanted to be enlightened Whereas I a small, petty poet What he got I do not know But I could not write a poem Instead I kept myself busy killing My buttocks got swollen much With the bites and poison-blood My hands became crimson red I was tired and what a waste Energy and attention all gone Finish killing these sons of swine Really a tough job and not a fun Yet I kept killing and killing Until I saw the gang of devils' end They sucked my fresh blood Spoiled my calm and peace By force tried to steal my place In a manner no humanity no grace Once upon a time I used to think Devils are there but they are few Evil is Shylock and many a Jew And I called them roughs and thugs Now I call them lousy bugs.