My Drunkard Son, When Will You? Poem by Bijay Kant Dubey

My drunkard son,
When will you turn up,
When will you,
Your old father is waiting, waiting for you?

When, when will you, my son,
My drunkard son,
Lying tipsy, inebriated
Dancing and feeling overjoyed?

Where, where you partying,
Partying, rejoicing,
Doing cheers, cheers,
Sitting at table with friends,
Cheering with?

When, when will you,
Will you, my drunkard son,
It is getting late,
It is getting late?

All have gone to sleep,
Even dogs are not,
Dew drops have started falling as they,
Foxes can be seen loitering around,
Black owls are squeaking.

And here lie I waiting, waiting for you,
For you, my son, my son,
And here lie I, lie I waiting, waiting for you,
For you, my,
When will, when will you turn up, turn up?

The night is appearing heavy upon
And when all have gone to sleep, to sleep,
You still, you still under the open,
Under the open skies
Fallen or staggering on the ways.

I feel it desperate and dejected
When see I not, see I not,
You coming it not, coming it not,
Getting late, getting late
When, when see I, see I not.

And joy knows no bounds, no bounds
When see I, see I you,
You coming,
You able to get own yourself
And walking on foot.

And a cigar on your lips
And you smoking a cigar,
A cigar burning smoking,
Let him, let him
As is back home at least
Be a smoker too
With a tobacco packet in his pocket.