Sutta Poem
They cough and they spatter
They wheeze and they gasp
Their breath smells all horrid and rotten
And kissing a person who smokes all the time
Is like snogging an elephant’s bottom
*** Confessions of a Smoker
Archive for the ‘Poetry’
Lovers’ Lane
Johnny drove in with a guitar last night
In a bruised, beat-up Buick
But dressed like a dynamite
He tried selling his heart
To the girls on Easy Street
They said, Hey Johnny, the heart is so cheap
And from the shadows, came a girl’s voice
She said, Johnny, it is providence
Sometimes love dont make any sense
Johnny called out to the girl,
Hey Jane, tell me what’s your name.
What are you doing on this shanty lane.
Come with me to paradise, under a sun so bright
I will strum my guitar, it will be all right
No Johnny, she said, I want to make easy money tonight
Like a cool Romeo Johnny made his move
And like a late Juliet with nothing to lose
She said, Johnny I have some love you can use
But the pimps called him a cheater
Swung their axes and called him a liar
And beat him black and blue in the corner
Johnny woke up damp with sweat
Jane was gone, he lost his bet
Picked up his guitar, and felt no regret
With bruised arms, and broken rhythm
He played a melody he’s always known
Goodbye Jane, I will meet you again
Tomorrow in the Lovers’ Lane
Laal Salaam
लाल सलाम Sahil says that he sees some spelling errors with the Hindi font. It looks perfect on my PC. May be it has something to do the font or the browser. So I write this as Angrezi main Hindi. Ek zamana tha Bahut gussa aata tha Dil karta tha ke Dhooan ugalne waali chimniyon ko bhujha doon Uss factory main aag laga doon Saari lachari mita doon Fir, Fir mujhe naukari mil gayee.
एक ज़माना था
बहुत गुस्सा आता था
दिल करता था के
धूआँ उगलने वाली चिमनियों को बुझा दूं
उस फॅक्टरी में आग लगा दूं
सारी लाचारी मिटा दूं
फिर,
फिर मुझे नौकरी मिल गयी |
Some notes of Longevity
© NOT ME.
The horse and mule live thirty years
And nothing know of wines and beers.
The goat and sheep at twenty die
Without a taste of scotch or rye.
The cow drinks water by the ton
And at eighteen it’s mostly done.
The dog at fifteen cashes in
Without the aid of rum or gin.
The modest, sober, bone-dry hen
Lays eggs for nogs and dies at ten.
But sinful, ginful, rum-soaked men
Survive three-score years and ten.
And some of us…though mighty few
Stay pickled ’til we’re ninety-two.
PS. Copyright,
