The Woes of English.

       The Pangs of a British Legacy.

"My users have a hell of lot, to do with me.

A few decades ago, they were my mirror.

I looked fabulous, when I saw myself through them;

Today they are causing blisters on my face

With their killing,keyboard manoeuvres.

Whenever they wantonly skip an alphabet,

I feel like losing one of my limbs,in an accident.

When they love to be ungrammatical,

They seem to put me in a casualty ward ;

At times,even in the intensive care unit,

With an internal organ failure,for urgent care.

How beautiful I looked in the hands of

A Shakespeare or Milton,a Johnson or Russell,

A Dickens or a Hardy,or an Ayn Rand,for instance.

Even the Dailies who loved my original looks,

Have begun to tamper with my alphabet,

On account of their electronic arrogance.

What they want is,how I am understood.

And not how appealing,the understanding should be.

I have become What T.S. Eliot once said,of them..

‘A heap of broken images and a withered stump of Time.’

The letters of my alphabet are crossed like their fingers.

Why a generation with neat,new and nice ideas,

Should choose to clothe them in rags,as a fashion?

Why this poverty of language,for a purpose peculiar?

Should my sentences,face an undue Death Sentence?"
P. Chandrasekaran.