We the Sultans...

We play with those guitars, not the guns…
Last night we went home drunk…
We are the Sultans,
The Lords of how we wish to sing…

The strings on those guitars move,
Fingers rolling over the chords like a swift little breeze…
We get those shivers, when we try to imitate
The snob and those bullies…
‘Cos we are the Sultans,
The Lords of how we wish to sing…

Competition, and search, earnest to imply what echoes
And in our eardrums rings…
When this old guitar is on the road,
And the wheels don’t mind,
Singing the road a lullaby…
And on the road we go,
We move through the highway,
‘Cos we are the Sultans,
The Lords of how we wish to sing…

We play with the Grey old beast,
That dark wicked horse of dreams,
Dreams which, failed, shall ring us a sorry lullaby,
But we never mind, as the soul wishes to sing…
We step up to that dream,
Facing with the ammunition and guitars,
Facing with words and laughter and, why yes,
Rolling fingers across those strings,
‘Cos we are the Sultans,
The Lords of how we wish to sing…

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju