I was roasting a leg of a butter,
drinking a slice of milk
and a cup of bread*,
was reading an interesting story
about an Italian named Donadoni
who came to Mumbai as a chef
to make pasta for a three star restaurant.
He macaronied the entire kitchen
chillying for shouts
but none of his assistants
could order his parts of speech.
Among those who were waiting
there was a German and an Indian
who worried about gender of their verbs
they left the restaurant
one feminine-ing and the other masculine-ing
their chronographs.
An Englishman was given the job
to translate (as is always the case
we look upon our colonial cousins
to translate anything for us).
He was given discount coupons for a month
for his entire family,
though his Italian was no good
but still he could command
the respect of his assistants.
Both of them had a pact,
The Englishman got a recipe for pasta
written by an Italian in English;
it was imported to India by a fashion designer.
The Restaurant owner changed the name
in the menu card to Pastaliano Italy,
now it makes double profit!
Now, glasses wear my eyes,
white striped shirt wears me.
I am trying to cut a knife
with an apple to make
the next successful business story.

*a man who lived in petusky  

Thanks for your pointer, Andre!