Old Monk and a Clueless Son

Old Monk & A Clueless SonGaurav Parab



We can beat em all one saidA line from a book on the only bedThree of us lay, one sat on his bumTwo packs of Peanuts, a bottle of Rum

Friend number one cleared his throatThat girl I spoke about, wrote her a noteF**k! Only three glasses? There. There’s a cupAnd then someone brought out the Thumsup

I was saying, listen to what I have to sayTold her we’ll fly through blue skies or greyShut the f**k up you talking poetIf you write to a girl, never ever show it

Two of us picked up our guitarsAnd someone sang Chasing CarsThe sober one quoted freaking ArtistotleMe? I just got wise from that odd looking Bottle

Always wondered, I asked one friendDo we keep the tongue straight or does it bendIs it Tonk, or said like a ship sunkOld Freaking Monk, or Old Freaking Munk?

If I lived this bloody life my wayThe speaker got up and swayedSit down you worthless drunkAnd leave that bottle of Old munk

So it is munk, I raised my weary headThe O is clearly unsaidNot for us, the Bengali raised a handThe O for us can never be banned

The Punjabi didn’t care much for pronunciationThis is not Rum, this is national integrationHe looked around, all of us sprawled drunkThe Bengali repeated Monk, not Munk

The poet did not give in and gave us a stareAfter a glass, she will be standing thereSo we all sadly looked his wayWhy do writers show up and never pay?

My father was a fauji, I quickly saidDrank like a fish, yet never went to his headStill have the unfinished bottle I softly criedFrom the evening that my wise father died

Three glasses and a cup was raisedHands steady, eyes slightly glazedTo women, to music, to a selfless father & his clueless sonA toast to our younger days and old Mr. Mohan

https://www.gauravparab.com/