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The Burmese monk in the Chinese junk,
Was an OK kind of guy;
I asked him, “What’s the meaning of life?”
And he answered with a sigh,
“It’s really so simple, so easy to see
It’s the easiest thing known to man,”
Then he picked up a beer and pointing to it
He opened up the can.

“So beer is the meaning of life?” I said,
But he smiled and shook his head,
“Remember, this is Zen,” he replied,
“The meaning of life is to be dead.”
I pondered long into the night
Upon what he had told me,
Then I noticed that the hands has stopped
On the watch that he had sold me.