I'm a middle aged gent, my mind is bent,
Fucked up is a better way to describe it.
Depressed all the time, mind full of rhymes,
About societal atrocities and shit.
Between starvation and obscurity, both shitty,
I find time to reflect and write.
It's really inscrutable the art, the fart,
But the sphincter dance isn't trite.
Between the inner and outer asshole,
Lives my wriggling index digit.
Bootstrapping on the rich nerve supply,
It helps be relax a little bit.
Love is lost, now compost,
On which the hate saplings grow.
Mistakes are a must in life, the strife,
Hesitant and pious the piss flow.
Bengali by speech, english just stitched,
A second language as it's known.
But the words are free,
Ideas agnostic of the language sown.
I'm sorry I'm mad, and I am sad,
I squandered all the early gains.
Couldn't tell a friend from a fiend,
Now my life, just indelible shit stains.
Plus my shit in a knot, logs in a pot,
They are smelly as the worst thing ever.
Sometimes after I shit, I promise,
There will be no next time, never.
My piss is yellow, a color I like,
You can piss on a person when he's small.
Kolkata is like a drain, it's piss rain,
You aim at the leaders on the wall.
This democratic piss, made a stylish miss,
I once knew, indeed very mad.
But now near fifty, medicated and shifty,
My dick like a saint is sad.
My soul has holes, a perforated asshole,
I can't wait to die.
Have to make room, people born like shrooms,
No room on land, you can only fly.
