Poem for Bharat

 

 

Inhale her blowing piles of mounting trash
Where fragrant winds of change bear human ash.
Eternal allure of the mystic East;
A six-armed goddess beckons to the feast:
Prasadam, chutney, consecrated dhal
And other dishes from the land of Baal.
Sandalwood incense, sickly-smoldering dhoop:
Exhaust from a rocket powered by poop . . .
INDIA! Soon, earth's next superpower—
To wonder when is to need a shower.

Blue-skinned idols bow in superstition,
Third eyes blinded by this apparition;
Your sacred rivers: filth and pollution
Flowing freely, a fecal solution
To your failed nation's shameful backward plight—
True brain-drain as your best minds flee the night
To seek prosperity in Western light.

And so, you've no excuse for arrogance
Amidst the ruins of your temple-dance.
Britain's structures have all long since crumbled;
Your many idols beg to be tumbled
Into the depths of your deathly rivers,
To lie in the muck while God delivers
Your people from their false life-givers . . .

Can Jesus bless, as you go on this way
Benighted—while the West inhabits day?
Will Christ facilitate development
And lift you from your pit of excrement,
Your multitudes freed from ignorant ways?
Jai Hind! And here's to hope of better days.

I'd call it Eastern Wisdom—but it's not.
Bow down in piles of human dung, Bharat;
Worship your cow, while washing in her piss.
My poem's close has finally come to this,
As I my guru's bovine backside kiss.