Festive Confessions of a Mysore Yogi

I’ve not written a single card this year, not placed baubles on any trees,
I found branches on an Indian street and thought thats the one for me.
My mulled wine will be served in plastic mugs, the movies illegally streamed,
All my festive efforts this year have gone into my Marichasana D.

Moon days have ruled my calendar month not the birth of Jesus Christ,
More interest here in the new Star Wars than when the ‘worlds saviour’ was brought to life.
My thighs have ached and screamed at me, I’ve consumed a life supply of chai,
Trying to get my head around sanskrit not the presents I need to buy.

Calls of ‘One more’ have haunted my dreams this year, not presents from St. Nick,
I’ve probably misbehaved anyway, that fat judgemental prick (sorry).
‘No coffee no Prana’ has been my mantra each day, my coconuts religiously bought,
Maybe I’ll only do 3 Navasana today and hope I don’t get caught.

‘What you do?’ the dreaded question poised upon Saraswatis lips,
My only christmas wish this year is that I can open up my hips.
Sharath has got his spies they say, he knows everything you do,
I’ve spent most my days at Corner House and he doesn’t have a clue.

Rest days to me equal pizza; garlic and extra cheese,
Guess I’ll have to stay to work this off but where will I find the fees?
It’s not all about the asana but it looks good on Instagram
I guess I’m just working for enlightenment in any way I can.

I’ve tried not getting too attached to things, but my gosh that mala’s pretty,
Just hoping I still get up for sun salutations once I leave this city.
And so a Happy Christmas, where ever you may be
Next year I’ll try to be better, love from a Bad Yogi.

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