Baba Sufi
07-03-2006, 08:51 PM
The Boss thought of his nephew as a dull witted oaf. The kid was big and he liked to box. He was medicore in the ring and would soon fade from the game. His nephew had a secret. The boxer loved poetry. He would write poetry under a nom de plume; his works were published in a Kabul newspaper. Everyone into poetry would wonder who this mystery man poet was, that wrote such marvelous verses. At home his brother would read aloud the poetry to the boxer's family. Everybody in the family would exclaim how wonderful the poetry was and what an intelligent and sensitive man this writer must be. The boxer would stand up and wave his arms about pugnaciously and declare; "Aw, he isn't anyone special. Why I bet I can write stuff just as good as he can!" "Sit down dear brother and I will bring you chia." his sister would say. His mother would think to herself that her poor deluded son had been hit in the head one too many times. Behind his back his father would sadly shake his head. The poor boy would never have the brains to write beautiful poetry like this, no wonder he is jealous. The boxer liked playing the role of the big dummy.