Not The End. A Fancy Poem by Ananta Madhavan

In Untoward Halls there is a cabinet
Wherein a self-effacing clerk has stored
A card-index to mark
The funny flaws of some like you and me.

If you go up to him and give your name,
And walk by without despair or expectation,
He may, if so disposed, pull out your card
And tell you with a leer of mild surprise
If you have measured up to
Your beloved creature or creation,
A pup maybe or even a computer mouse.