The Tavern Travesty

1
When his gin-bottle was half-drunk, as was he
The man started narrating the tavern travesty
He flicked his cigarette and cleared his throat
Scratched his beard and unbuttoned his coat
As he stared into his glass and twirled the ice
He said he'll tell me a story, “It’s sad but nice”
Then gravely cupped his hand about his chin
And looked into the distance, as I said “Begin”



2
“Across the street, he said, it's a bit less elite
On that side of town, in a long winding street
There is a tavern where some old men meet
Clink their glasses, unwind and feel complete
And idly banter about birth and life and death
Slurred and stuttered in one indifferent breath
Smelling of tobacco, and some piffling dreads
They sit; a huddle of old coats, balding heads



3
They blow the dust off some blinking memory
And hold it up in the light for every one to see
By turns they touch and feel it and remember
The moment long lost in a cold old November
Hoary memoirs; obscure, impure and insecure
Grow with the night and become more unsure
As their musty rusty camaraderie soaks in gin
In cheap laughter the misery spreads out thin



4
In rowdy chatter, the grief’s ground down fine
Mixed and drunk neat in sloppy gulps of wine
Some feel it is benign, some call it clandestine
Most loosen up their worries, smile and resign
They scrape off worries the day had accrued
The deepest fears are shamelessly laid nude
On the table, as they sit and sip their solitude
And share their memories; tattered, mildewed




5
They drink in the uncommon, unhurried leisure
And moments of precarious, vicarious pleasure
No boasts about making money, or love or sex
Little talk of career and less of future prospects
They have grown older than jobs and Mondays
They can uselessly talk ‘bout the good old days
Now there is a lot less than enough to get done
In the shadow of a lazy hazy mellow yellow sun



6
One of these men has been the epitome of folly
He was emotional but he was pleasant and jolly
There was the girl he loved, way back in school
Who thought him cute-ish, but called him a fool
She married for money, he gradually grew grim
And she lay on her lone bed and thought of him
"Nice days", he says, "...that I finally left behind"
"Ne'er change my feeling but changed my mind"



7
There's one in the brown coat who's now senile
And rants all the time about some goddamn file
How he lost his job, and how it was not his fault
And that it was not him who locked up the vault
The men ignore him mostly, and he bangs a fist
Every few minutes and loudly proclaims “I exist”
They can see that he's wronged and he's alone
But you see they all have problems of their own



8
Four of them sit grumbling; they made the band
“The old stuff was music; this new stuff's bland”
“Let’s get together again, you can play the bass”
“Shut up” says that one; looks away in the haze
“What the...” but another guy squeezes his knee
“Can’t play anymore, bad accident…Let him be”
They all remember their shows in cheap hotels
And sit silently, hesitantly asking “And what else”




9
About early morning the conversation dies down
The heroes of the night sit silent, sigh and frown
The stories overheard are now over-over-heard
Lot of the regulars remember almost every word
The tavern falls silent, just cough, shifting chairs
The odd rubbing of hands, the saying of prayers
The gathering grows restless, grunts and heaves
Checks its watches and says its “I-must-leave”-s



10
They shuffle out by eleven, tired and bleary-eyed
And set their watches to the one hanging outside
Then they start a life as usual, worry about it lots
Walking back, they often stumble on the thoughts
Shake up from their reveries and suddenly realise
That they were dreaming and they wipe their eyes
They take a look around, and slowly comprehend
Just around this bend, the dream is about to end



11
Then till the next night, this old tavern disappears
And starts’ appearing again as the evening nears
The old men who get swallowed in the city lanes
Surface again in the evening like forgotten stains
It’s got people worried; they now lock their doors
It’s evil wind they say – chemicals, pollen, spores
They say it is strange; insomnia that strikes at ten
But that’s not the story of these sleepwalking men”



12
He shrugged his shoulders, creaking and hoary
And smiled at me and asked, “How’s the story?”
I said I didn’t know; it was interesting no doubt
He just nodded and said, “Give it some thought”
He then looked at his watch and said, “It’s ten”
“So long young man, we’ll meet, wonder when”
Then I asked him if it was true, and he told me
“Maybe yes, and maybe no, and maybe maybe”