(Disclaimer: If you are an Indian Gentleman reading my Ode, this poem is NOT about you so please don't take offense).
Oh my King, my God, my mustachioed Lord.
You are ever-present.
You are everywhere I go.
You are there at dawn, when I awake
to the gut-churning hawk
of your morning ablutions.
Each day I am greeted by your regal belly,
while you welcome the sun
in your highness's dhoti.
My life is in your hands, Oh Great One,
as I navigate the perilous highway.
Your permanent hand on the horn makes it very clear
who's King of THIS road.
Your lusty looks follow my every move,
my esteemed Master,
from chai shops, wine bars and street corners.
Bodily functions pose no obstacle to you,
great Celestial being.
You are squatting at the roadside as I go by,
doing what has to be done.
As evening falls, my Prince,
you are to be found prancing in the streets,
arm-in-arm with your buddy.
Your talents know no bounds.
Only One of your inestimable reach can
steer a motorbike, chat on a mobile and
scratch his balls ALL at the same time. RESPECT.
At end of day, my Dream, my only Master,
I am lulled to sleep by
the reverborating echo of your incredible, manly belch.
The White House, Mysore 2008
