"moka" poems
Kar himmat or aage badh,
Bina dare, bina thake bas chal de tu,
Mushkile hai raah me, to aane de,
Kuch kar gujrne ki chah ko jagne de.
Tujhme hai wo kabiliyat,
Tujhme hai wo junoon,
Tu jo chahta h wo kar ke to dekh,
Milega tuje 1 alag hi sukun.
log kya kahenge ye sochna chod de,
Abhi bhi moka hai, apni kismat ko badal le,
Are Heera hai tu, bas khud ko tarashne ki jaruart hai,
Apne andar chupi kabiliyat ko pehchanne ki jarurat hai,
Par sirf, Apni kabiliyat ya apne hunar ko pehchan lena hi kafi nahi hoga,
Ye hoonar 1 podha hai, jise tuje apni mehnat ke pasine se Sichna hoga,
fir dekh, 1 din tera ye hoonar hi teri pehchan ban jaega.
Aur wo din door nahi, jab hazaro logo ke liye tu ek misaal ban jaega !!! :)
Written By:
Shivam Porwal
Jan 24, 2018
Jan 24, 2018 at 12:59 AM UTC
Ye bola sa dil tho hai mera
de di ya ek chota se batche ke leya
ABE dil meh ek moka tere leya reya
Abe viswash tere haath mei ma rega ya
Viswash thor na nahi mera
Feb 4, 2013
Feb 4, 2013 at 5:26 PM UTC
Would you like some Chicken Soup?
Only when I'm diggin' for a loop
Hole in the court system to pay the debt
Why ask y if its a letter in the alpha-bet
Let MF Doom & Moka Only save the day
Come on y'all, lets eat some more soup today
Mar 3, 2010
Mar 3, 2010 at 8:47 PM UTC
Entre le sac et le ressac
Ma muse nage nue
Au cœur des vagues
De neige immortelle
De la nuit tropicale.
C'est un mélange de sirène
Et de sauterelle
A la queue papillonnante bleue verte et grise
Qui plonge à intervalles réguliers
Dans le sauna des abysses
A la recherche des sources chaudes
Des volcans sous-marins
Où dorment les champignons sauvages
Et où paissent les rennes
En attendant le moka saveur airelles
D'un Petit Prince abscons portant masque, palmes et tuba
Qui danse la rumba cubaine.
Quand ma très chère se déhanche
Elle skie elle patine elle surfe
Elle nage elle plonge elle sue
Entre les battements de conga,
Les glissés et les déliés de son partenaire
Tout en tricotant des pas humides de calypso vierge
Ad libitum.
Sep 29, 2019
Sep 29, 2019 at 7:48 AM UTC
Work night rumbles in the Dublin 4 palace
Laughing in the stale smell of too much freedom
Whiskey, beer, prosecco make up
A rainbow of mischievous golden hues
Corona that smells like drifting **** clouds
No limes, browning in the red net
In the fridge between pockets of pizza space
No Topshop dresses, flannel shirts, uniforms
But greasy repeal jumpers, palazzo pants, huffing
Rollies on the porch under generous back light
Beside rabbit ornament with human head, crouched
In grass below the shroud of full moon fever.
An ex-rugby lad in a Chance the Rapper cap
Stands in the sunroom eating Chinese
He ordered when he was bored of girls
Changing the song one too many times
Masking the gurgling moka, hidden
To serve coffee at midnight and write bad verse
Before morning dips potato waffles into relish
"Which is just posh ketchup", breakfast
Before leaving dry chunks in the bath for work.
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 1:08 PM UTC
Decapitated Coffee.
Froth Less
100% Pure Arabica
Sword Top Skimmed
M.B.S.
Moka Bin Sabre.
Oct 24, 2018
Oct 24, 2018 at 1:42 AM UTC