The poet Akbar Allahabadi was in Benares when he was lured by some friends into a street just like ours. He had drunk quite a lot – just like you – so he leaned against a wall to urinate. And then – what happened ? – a courtesan, leaning out from a window above, recognized him from one of his poetry recitals, and – and she said – She said – Akbar Sahib is gracing us with his poetry!
So when he heard her, the poet made this remark on the spur of the moment:
“Alas – what poor poetry can Akbar write
When the pen is in his hand and the inkpot upstairs?”