Young buddhist don’t be foolish go to school to learn the hand signs
and translate sutras
He travels light, unravels mystery of shared sipping tea
with hot liquor sipped at night.
Back pack have stacks of books in white rags and pens to write
lines for ghost who waited life times for men just like, Ho.
Wandering man of zen just might go, astray, fall victim to pretty witch who play wife, don’t play nice.
Pretend to be right, fit, not one bit of good bone in this witch.
The arranged marriage, play fool like a Melody, but love notes from drum, make man dumb, she beat rhythm to control what she wants.
Got him on a string, knees buckling, sit down and scribble, or crush his little frame.
Don’t touch the rosary, nosey, mother, get burned by Ho’s beads.
She don’t act right, fake a cold, climate faux, there’s something funky in the air.
It’s not the drum the monk beat, or symbol he bang, learning sound to defeat gang of ghost, the close call, got them all, dodging exploding percussion, puddle of ex love.
Head decapitated, cloud gone, he clearly liberated.