Its not gold its battery acid
The people they killed tonight are cringing in their graves
Just like Iqbals generation must feel about pakland
Forever your lies seem to extend,
Your massacre last May set our hearts in harmony
A chorus of Shariatian whistles.
We woke up.
In spring, Oh sweet child of mine,
The fragrance from your donor developmented dungheaps
Acts like a perpetual aromatic facepalm,
Ah, somebody pass us the buckets!
In autumn, Oh fabled construct of Calcutta
In the genetically modified paddy fields
I have seen sweet subaltern smiles spread over your poverty pornographs.
Oh children of Hawa, what about the day when there will be no shade but our deeds?
What a sight all this flag worship and cheap jatra?
What a guilt have you miscast
At the feet of the innocent?
And you sing about your fucking rivers!
Like muppets on a string.
Oh fake feminist representatives of shaytanarchy, words from your lips
Are like black magic to the masses.
Ah, take some more pills!
It wont be long
Multitudes may join your stupid, uninspiring song
Nevertheless soon you will be gone.