Five-days old stubble,
A heap of rubble,
He doesn’t care to trim;
He has no desire to be posh and prim.
With all things he plays shuttle;
His room is a jigsaw puzzle.
Clothes tucked in bookshelves
And computer on floor,
Books strewn in wardrobes
And kitchenware in store.
Mosquito net strung all the time
Over his bed,
He has made his life sublime
Without any sweat.
He never stays put with patience,
Floating always is his existence.
Busy without business,
People call him a bohemian par excellence.
Parents like to see him marry,
But it doesn’t seem to be his worry.
They pray for him to find his partner,
But Cupid simply doesn’t seem to care.
Everything so bizarre,
Who is this boulevardier?
He is a bachelor,
Is a bachelor,
Is a bachelor.