The below is a poem/poetry titled Tipsy It.
A round table full of records.
A round table round with books.
The books are for diplomats
For the green and grey.
It had no child’s play there.
With the chairs round it.
Only that the table is devoid of foods
But good spring tabled-water.
For the brains.
Shouldn’t these water cool the brains?
Mature Minds seated round table.
Decisions indecision rules.
Whose fault is it?
Delay in diplomacy could be intelligence.
Who knows the results may be positive.
Postponed thrice like Brexit is Tipsy.
I feel Tipsy in this now