Old Monk & A Clueless Son
We can beat em all one said
A line from a book on the only bed
Three of us lay, one sat on his bum
Two packs of Peanuts, a bottle of Rum
Friend number one cleared his throat
That girl I spoke about, wrote her a note
F**k! Only three glasses? There. There’s a cup
And then someone brought out the Thumsup
I was saying, listen to what I have to say
Told her we’ll fly through blue skies or grey
Shut the f**k up you talking poet
If you write to a girl, never ever show it
Two of us picked up our guitars
And someone sang Chasing Cars
The sober one quoted freaking Artistotle
Me? I just got wise from that odd looking Bottle
Always wondered, I asked one friend
Do we keep the tongue straight or does it bend
Is it Tonk, or said like a ship sunk
Old Freaking Monk, or Old Freaking Munk?
If I lived this bloody life my way
The speaker got up and swayed
Sit down you worthless drunk
And leave that bottle of Old munk
So it is munk, I raised my weary head
The O is clearly unsaid
Not for us, the Bengali raised a hand
The O for us can never be banned
The Punjabi didn’t care much for pronunciation
This is not Rum, this is national integration
He looked around, all of us sprawled drunk
The Bengali repeated Monk, not Munk
The poet did not give in and gave us a stare
After a glass, she will be standing there
So we all sadly looked his way
Why do writers show up and never pay?
My father was a fauji, I quickly said
Drank like a fish, yet never went to his head
Still have the unfinished bottle I softly cried
From the evening that my wise father died
Three glasses and a cup was raised
Hands steady, eyes slightly glazed
To women, to music, to a selfless father & his clueless son
A toast to our younger days and old Mr. Mohan
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