By Sadho Ram
There are chances that a Pimp will have more respect for your money than a Poet will ever have for your emotions.
Agreed that the profession of a Pimp is to sell flesh―alive, breathing flesh that has been oppressed to satisfy the naked but natural hunger dwelling inside those dogs who walk the nights on two legs with another hanging in between. But the profession of a Poet is far more worse and loathsome.
You see, a poet not only uses your naivety to lure you in―therefore making you his slave, he even captures the most essential, the most important part of you―your mind and makes you his puppet, and then plays with your emotions in manners that even when you want to curse him, you end up appreciating the myth he created in front of your gullible eyes.
So you see, what a Pimp does is no doubt degradable and should be condemned to the very core of it, but what a Poet does for a living should invite the wretchedest of criticism. And while you condemn the profession of a Pimp (but not the Pimp himself), it IS the Poet himself that you should condemn and condemn like you have never condemned anything else (maybe even to death).