Popular philosophy, and vomit on feet,
Narrow bed, and hard, hard seats,
Photography, yes, at the end of streets,
Our minds, children, did they really meet?
Wayfarers, and fare on the way,
Chilli parothas, and metaphysics if you may,
Wheels of joy, on the rocks we lay,
Unencumbered by structural suffocations, what say?
Talladega Nights, not quite, but they did seem right,
Pink coffee and vanilla lace, say what you might,
Days full of promises, nights of mellow delight,
Did we weave fresh patterns, or was our tailoring trite?
A golden orb in the middle of the gardens,
There is only one way this can end, my resolve hardens,
A piece of pork or bacon is called lardon,
The reality convicts, children, the imagination pardons.