To Persephone a pratishloka

That April's Sun with heavy hand

Now  belabours Winter's tardy trainband

Shames thou, Kulashekharan, who like James the Second

Dispels not the Dryden darkness Poverty is reckoned

But, rather, like unto a butt-hole waxed and bleached

Straining at Sermons Porn will have preached
The Deaths of Timur's Captives crossing the Hindu Kush
I'd die, Mrs Bhatnagar, up thy Hindu tush.

Envoi-

Prince! As to Asclepius a cock & to Persephone a pratishloka

A poker up the arse is what you owe Emperor Ashoka