Eighteenth birthday, dawns a bittersweet truth,
That your child has turned, into an independent youth.
Now he can make his own decisions, doesn't need your advice,
Can choose for himself, what is virtue, what's vice.
You should be happy, he has grown, he can now fly alone,
All you're worried is what you'll do, when he is no longer home.
He has set his sails high, wants to explore wide and far,
As he gets sucked in the rat race, you hope he'll still play guitar.
Now its free-for-all, age is no longer a bar,
He can be left to fend for himself, in this cut-throat bazaar,
That may be true of western world, I'm still an Indian dad,
I'll keep hovering over him, although this makes him feel bad.
Eighteen years is a long preparation, from the time you were a child,
Readying myself to be strong and resilient, as I let you out into the wild.
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