Asian Elvis


Come and see our Asian Elvis

Rockin Indian restaurant.

A rocking, rolling Elvis

Version of the Vegas one.

Hotter than the hottest jalfrezi

Cooler than a poppadom

Rocking, rolling Elvis

Grooving in the Indian restaurant.

Said he’d been away some

Come back sporting a tan.

Spitting image of Elvis

Hip strutting Asian man.

Rock right out of Chenai

Shout out for Mumbai

Sounding just like Elvis

Rocking right out of LA

Jumping across two cultures

Smiles all round the room

Good vibes round the restaurant

Grooving to a common tune.


The Past is Past

arm-woman-hand-girl.jpgThe past is past, it’s gone it’s flown.

No point dwelling on regret;

It won’t come back. The chance’s blown.


For all we sit and sigh and groan.

However much we sit and fret.

The past is past, it’s gone it’s flown.


The things back then we wished we’d known

Lessons we learned we won’t forget.

It won’t come back the chance’s blown.


There may be chances to atone

A different option, better bet.

The past is past, it’s gone, its flown.


We learned the lessons we have grown

The future hasn’t happened yet

There’ll be new chances not yet blown.


Let go the past, though don’t forget

We’ll grasp the future not yet met.

The past is past, it’s gone it’s flown 

The future we will make our own.

Chai Wallah on the train


Photo by Resham Gellaty

This is my tale of a chai wallah 

Met on an Indian train

If you’ve heard it before forgive me for

You are going to hear it again.


We are travelling on an Indian train

The only non Indians there.

A chai wallah’s moving down the train

And I guess you know the score.


He’s calling out to sell his wares

So this is what we heard, 

“Chai, chai, chai, chai.”

Moving down the train.


“Chai, chai, chai, chai.”

Closer all the time.

“Chai, chai, chai, chai”,

Until he got to me.


Without the slightest hint of pause

Or any break in rhythm

He changed his call 

As he went by me

And this is what we heard.


“Chai, chai, chai, chai,

Chai, chai, Tea, chai, chai”.

He changed his call from chai to tea

Just as he went by me.


Two nations tied together

By so much history

I hope we share our humour

And it’s funny to him

As to me.

The rule of the Indian road


The rule of the Indian road

Is not the same as our own

The bigger you are 

The more road you own

Is the rule of the Indian road.


No one holds back or ever gives way

Always go forward’s the rule of the day.

No matter how small the space

You’ll somehow or other get through.


You must use every inch of the road

Be you tuck tuck, or push bike or car.

No matter how small the space

There’s always a way to get through.


Forget all the rules at a junction

You all have to sort of nudge in.

There’s no holding back

Just find the right space

And somehow 

You’ll push yourself in.


Though their looming towards you

There’ll be a way through;

Breath in there should just be room.


The rule of the road is unruly

There’s no rhyme or reason at all.

And yet they’re not aggressive

You’ll seldom see anger or anxt.


You kind of get through

And others do too

There’s always just enough space.


Now you must sound your horn whenever you pass.

It’s considered the polite thing to do.

It’s never sounded in anger.

It just means nudge up let me through.


Now the rule of the road in India

Is we don’t need too many rules

But the main rule of all

That makes them all work

Is the rule that says

Thou shalt not kill.

Farewell to Madrid


There’s more to do when in Madrid
Than watch parades of men in hoods
Especially when the weather’s good
In spring.

It’s good to be outside and warm
To bask in welcome spring time heat
Find good things to drink or eat.
My thing.

Great wide open public spaces
Tall treed gardens, sun filled plazas
Snack in sun filled squares on tapas.
Fit in.

The city has so much to offer.
Places to go and things to do
Palace Real, Cathedral, Prado
Great thing.

Velazquez, Goya art to spare.
There’s Real Madrid, Athletico
The Santiago Bernabeu.
They sing.

But all good times must have an end
Our time is up we have to go
Goodbye to sights we got to know

Tamborrada (Easter Sunday, Madrid)

Tamborrada Easter SundayMadrid

And behold, there was a great earthquake, for an angel of the Lord descended from heaven and came and rolled back the stone and sat on it.” Matthew 28:2 (ESV)

Easter Sunday Tamborrada
Beat their drums in Plaza Mayor
See the drummers of Madrid
Beat their drums to say he lives.
Christ is risen from the dead
Say the drums of old Madrid.

Banging, banging Tamborrada
Beat their drums in old Madrid
Drummers marching; past a hundred
Beat their drums to say he lives.
Christ is risen, from the dead
Say the drums of old Madrid.

Buildings shaken by the sound
Of the beating, beating drums;
Rising to a great crescendo
Shakes the streets and buildings round.
Rumbling like a mighty earthquake
Great vibrations through the ground.

Banging drums the Tamborradas
Sound the message that he lives.
Beat their drums in old Madrid
Sound the message that he lives
Christ is risen from the dead
Say the drums of Old Madrid.


Happy Easter Everyone!


Passed Masters


I passed a masterpiece today
I passed a few what can I say?
We did the Prado, Thyssen too.
How many pictures? Barely know.

Caught Picasso, Tintoretto
Saw a Goya, a Titian or two.
Others we passed, what can I say?
We missed a few. It’s how things go.

Visitation, crucifixion
Salvation now annunciation.
Here’s another; come this way.
We wander past them to and fro.

That’s a Monet, and there’s a Bosch.
We can look but must not touch.
This one’s Durer, that’s El Greco
Velasquez here, some Reubens too.

Now a room of gentry, royalty.
Carlos third; we know that nose.
On and on and on it goes.
All we tourists passing through.

There’s classic figures nude, unclothed,
Pictures of heaven only knows.
Round and round and round we go.
So many rooms we just pass through.

Masters painted, sought perfection
Showed technique and dedication.
But we can’t really take it in
And what we see we hardly know.

The artists could have never known
Their pictures would like this be shown;
Now just another wandered past
That should stand proudly on its own.

I passed a masterpiece today.
I passed a few what can I say?
We did the Prado and Thyssen too.
How many pictures? Barely know.





You’ve seen the scenes in Spain, Madrid

Celebrating Easter there.

Meanwhile upon an English Street

You’ll hardly know it’s Holy Week.

English people lack the passion

Won’t process in Spanish fashion.

We’d feel so foolish on the street.

And cringe if neighbours we should meet.

We make a gesture on Palm Sunday;

The congregation forced from out their chairs.

Shuffling round the church half hearted.

Clearly wishing they weren’t there.

Glumly at the vicar’s bidding

Squirming, near the passing traffic;

They all stand; outside the church

Passive, quiet and undramatic.

They’ll nervously grasp their small palm cross

But will they wave them? ‘No not us’.

We’ll take them home without a fuss.

Displayed but nowhere obvious.

Good Friday some process the cross

But only if they’re very keen.

Much braver than the rest of us.

Who’d rather die than be thus seen.

The cockerel crows three times for us

But such is English nervousness

You won’t find us below the cross

For that would so embarrass us.

Procesion Del Silencio (Good Friday in Madrid)


Watch as round the streets they go
Procesion del Silencio.
Eerie in their tall white hoods
Through the streets Madrileño
Their respect in silence show.

Solemn march to mark Good Friday
Christ died for our sins that day
Silent, white robed, in their hoods
The eerie figures make their way
And mark this solemn holiday.


Jueves Santos – Holy Thursday in Madrid



Holy Thursday Madrid

Holy Thursday in Madrid
You’ll see men with faces hid
Wearing big tall pointed hoods
Penitential brotherhoods.

And you’ll see Los Costaleros
Struggling with the mighty Pasos
Images on weighty altars
Gold and silver painted thrones.

Through the crowded streets they’re carried
Shoulders struggle with the weight
Images of Jesus, Mary
Sometimes all but feet are  hid.

It can be a slow progression
There can be a lengthy wait
Spanish people stay up late
Their processions will continue
Late into the Spanish night.