The Food Mill

Some people should be always left alone
While nursing their drinks warriors of stone
Ulysses was one such battle scarred man
Buried his best friend or burnt him best he can

Now in the Village of Hauz Khas still
In a joint they call the Food Mill
Ulysses counts his scars new and old
Fueled by apple martinis that are cold

Ulysses this is, but he is not the Ulysses that you know
This is Ulysses on a budget , because well the economy de Greek izz slow
So taking up the galant Food Mill promise quite at ease
Unlimited cocktails at Rs 699 taxes extra if you please

Ulysses nurses his peanut with a spicy Indian starter
And ruminates like all men before him have but just faster
On the women he lost and the women he still may have again
And the women reading this poem in far away Spain

Spain, Ulysses nods, thats a place they never sent me
I serve in hells hotter than you could see
Ulysses the loyal the dependable the one we can always call
Ulysses will fight when Angels will crawl

Still this is not a poem about the man
This is a poem on the inn that served him with elan
The Food Mill, with elegant decor, and grace
Ulysses stumbles out, God bless this place