Young Mohan was three by the time
Borders were made
And an angry facist peddler sung in disdain,
Sentiments were breached and so was time,
There were bloodsheds more often by the time he was nine;
In patriotic leu and an abundant of moral synecdoche
Religion, apathy, martyr meaning terrorism
Young Mohan was thrown
As a vendor who stole money
And saw women on screen,
The green had gone green
Humanity was a partake on films
Flimsy films and orange bandanas
Verbal stench ruining the hymn of jove,
Topsy turvy Independence naught,
Mohan had seen women with tops
And women without them,
He had seen them dressing with conch flowers delicate on their boudoir of black facade,
And he stared to what the Country had become
In the orange lights of Saree,
And the spit of beetle juice,
His country was sold.