Tam Brahm Blues

The Tam Brahm is an antique creature
Pompous thinking his fancy feature
Takes big crises in lighter vein
Looks down on fun, in disdain
Thinks too long, thinks too wide
Not more than curd-rice on his side
Likes to soar, over the worlds
Has a weakness to hear his own words
Frets on the future, of humanity
Has property rights on sanity!
But curls up then, in foetal grace
Sacred ash, upon his face
In a jiffy makes those numbers tally
Goes forth to conquer the Silicon Valley
But misses his roots, all the same
Sambar and cricket, entirely to blame
Seeks power in ideals, ideals in wealth
Adores simplicity, loves some stealth
Three thousand years, upon his genes
Amuses oldies, annoys the teens
He still might change the new millennium
With the excess packed, in his cranium!