We are bequeathed on the nation,
And the nation bequeathed to us.
Have pride they said,
For it is the only one in the universe.

Culture! Culture! Cried the painter,
Oldest of the old.
A single stroke, a blazing hue,
He drew as he was told.

The nation in all its feminine divinity,
A trident and a halo.
He drew as he had drawn before,
With a saffron brush.

The mural stood in all its glory,
Under the warrior’s watch.
Till a bullet pierced his spine,
And he died while yet on his watch.

Again the painter with his saffron brush was called,
To paint over the blood stained wall.
As the warrior looked on,
Remembering his fallen comrade,
Humming the age old serenade.

We are bequeathed on the nation,
And the nation bequeathed to us.
Have pride they said,
For it is the only one in the universe.

The large army of sadhus and saints,
Oh! Don’t mistake them for dovish men.
If it came between a man or a calf,
They’ll shoot the man and spit on his corpse.

That valiant army fought many battles,
Armed with axes, sticks, hammers and sickles.
They once tore down a giant monster,
That looked more like a temple of a competing order.

Having reclaimed their lord’s birthplace,
Bringing pride and honor upon their race.
Vultures hovering above at a height,
Waiting to stoop below for a fight.

Front changes, battle rages on,
Heat of the sun, to cool of the bar.
Fire within kept burning,
Fueled by love and hate churning.

I now seek permission to blasphemise,
For I question the lord they canonize.
Isn’t it dastardly
For a slayer of demons
To seek help of mere mortals?

The Prince gets away with ******,
At the price of 2 guns and a tower.
Now we know what oil can buy,
From the orange idiot who acts blind,
And rules the world, but not hearts and mind.