FOR BETTER OR FOR VERSE

Here is the first of the collections of my rhymes of the day. These are primarily topical; though some are based on my mood of the day. You can get their full flavour if you recall the news of the day; for example, massacre of Maradonna’s Argentina by Germany in the last Football World Cup.

Read on. A second edition will follow:

Those were the days my friend,
We didn’t have Cut, Copy, Paste and Send.

I could not sleep the whole night long;
Thinking of how every Right just went Wrong;
I wish I could sing a happy song.

Can big teams play BIG football?
Well, the only thing BIG is their fall.

So low are the ways of Indian leaders;
That virtually they are corruption breeders;
Or in other words nation bleeders.

I like the sun, the moon and the flowers;
But, what I like best are the monsoon showers.

Sundays are for rising late,
Sundays are for rest;
But God, when I watch the world cup,
Don’t send any visitor or guest.

England did not have it in them to win;
But they made enough din;
For Lampard’s goal that went in the bin.

Nice to be witness to Brazilian magic;
Thrice Chile was fooled by their trick;
All field goals and no penalty kick.

One is born, works, eats, plays, sleeps, and dies;
Is there nothing else to our lives?
What about Love, its joys and sighs?

“I too want a degree”
Said the Paki son to his dad;
“Okay” said the father, “I can buy BA, MA,
But Phd is the current fad”.

Rain, rain don’t go away;
Please come every day;
Little Rooney never wants to play.

The Samba boys are finally out,
Being done in by the Dutch;
Dont you feel the Brazilians,
Had lost their magic touch?

Massacre of Argentina was a subject,
Klose to Germany’s heart;
And Messi? Well, he,
just proved to be a fart!

“When will India excel in Soccer?”
Asked of his father a son.
He replied, “Only after,
With Cricket, we have done”.

When will realise strikes don’t help;
Except those who, like dogs, yelp.

Muttiah Muralitharan is,
The best off-spinner we ever had;
Now that he is retiring,
We can’t help feeling sad.

People come into your life for a reason.
But, whether or not they stay depends upon the season!

How lovely to have children around;
Oh, don’t we all love the sound,
Of their little feet on floor or ground?

Let’s not make a big fuss,
About Paul the Octopus;
If he was really so bright,
He’d be emitting an Oranje light!

I remember the days they’re small;
And used to see me as a hero.
But now that my kids have grown up,
I ‘ve become closer to a zero.

Come be my love till the end of Time;
But, at least be mine till the end of this rhyme.

‘Tis better not to fall in love,
And keep a steady head;
For she will surely pull the plug,
And leave you cold and dead.

Now that we have found Higgs Bosun,
Can we do without God?
But, after all is said and done,
What if it turns out to be fraud?

Peace with our neighbour Pakistan,
Will never get a chance;
So long as they feel that hatred,
Is the best political stance.

I thought I could live without friends,
And I believed it was true;
But thank God I was wrong,
For I can’t live without you.

The best days are Sundays,
’cause they have my name (Ravi);
Without them there won’t be fun days,
And life would not be the same.

Of all things life makes you learn,
This one you shouldn’t forget;
When you, with envy burn;
You have already lost the bet.

India and Pakistan will always be,
Strange bedfellows;
Who want to get along famously,
But take offence to even “hellos”.

Sometimes you tweet and tweet,
And you still can’t be heard;
Like as if your best feat,
Is simply absurd.

How many total moods are there,
Happy, pining, buoyant and sad?
Counting gets you nowhere,
It only makes you mad.

Every morning I get up,
With resolve to do a lot;
Every night I go to sleep with,
‘Is this all I’ve got?’

Pakistan is part of Western plan,
To keep India in check;
Today Kayani is their man,
Tomorrow it’d be another smart Aleck.

Those who can’t see,
Because they are blind;
Are still better than those,
Who can’t see because of closed mind.

Their sacrifices are in vain,
If we ever forget Kargil;
To fight like that was insane,
Yet they captured Tiger Hill.

Why do we require Wikileaks,
To tell us what we knew all along;
That Pakistan’s support for Taliban,
Took US for a song?

f For Freedom

She was a model

A model of haute couture.

So high that it was designed directly by God.

Pot-bellied men and voluptuous women

Sat awaiting the next item.

And then, she walked along the catwalk

Not flaunting but apologetic

Of her near nudity.

Tattered clothes barely covering her.

A young body, all of fifteen years.

A small child

In the crook of her left arm,

Held as a prize, a memento for

The depravity and avarice of men

A wonderful fashion statement!

She looked straight ahead

At the pole bearing the tri-colour,

A remarkable symbol of

Sixty-three years of independence.

A sign of our freedom.

Freedom from what?

Well, never mind, freedom,

F-R-E-E-D-O-M and Independence.

She walked right up to the tiranga

And tugged at the rope

And brought down the flag

And wrapped it around her and the child.

And then for the final denouement

She brought out a bowl

And held it out

From beneath the Ashoka Chakra

To the guardians of fashion;

“f”, she said, “Always stood for food”.

Footnote: Let’s not forget it when we celebrate our Independence Day yet again.

TEMPLE OF GOD

“Hurry”, said the man from his rickshaw seat,
“Else, we would be late for the Mangal Pooja”.
His wife tugged nervously at the flowers,
She had gathered as an offering to the gods.
Her face was red with accusation,
Not just against the frail rickshaw puller,
But also against her husband,
“I told you not to hire this man,
He hardly has strength to pull,
Let alone pull with speed.
We shall have the curse of the gods
For being late for the Pooja”.

Pic Courtesy: Allianz Knowledge Site

The City of Joy,
Mother Theresa’s adopted city,
Was as unkind to the rickshaw puller,
As ever it used to be;
he could have been a slave under the British yoke.

Pot holes and filth on streets were not enough
To chastise the rickshaw puller;
It had rained heavily and hence,
He stood behind the pulling bar
In knee deep squalid water.
He had promised his family of three children
And an ailing wife, food,
After two days of starvation.
Their hope of meals, on the seat behind him,
Blasphemed him with all their might
For making them late for the prayers.

I saw the sweat on his muscles,
I saw the wetness of his brow
As he tried in vain to get the wheels
Out of the unseen ditch.
I thought how wretched was the man,
How cruel was life for him;
Could anything be worse?
And then,
And then, I looked at the couple on the seat.
Fuming and fretting,
Cursing and abusing,
Little did they know,
How close they really were,
To your temple, O God!

PRAYER OF THE FAITHFUL

Give me the good sense, O’ God,
Though I am most useless of the blokes,
To see sense in First Lady’s plans,
And to laugh at my Captain’s jokes.

I too want to rise, my Lord,
I too want to belong.
I want to be in tune with times,
I surely can’t do no wrong.

I too have visions of me, my Lord,
To up to the highest reach;
In the interim, I don’t mind,
To be called a worm, snake or leech.

To reach the highest of high, my Lord,
I don’t mind stooping so low,
As to kill my individuality,
And to say “yes”, when I mean “no”.

The only creed I have, my Lord,
Is my love for the blue oceans,
And somehow to make my own thoughts,
In sync with my CinC’s emotions.

I know that day won’t be far,
When I stand to get my just reward,
When everyone’d finally realize,
That I’ve really worked very hard.

Category: Poems and Lyrics