When covid fucks your ass, you can't smell your gas,
And left gasping for some air.
One day I go out, lungs in utter rout,
No wonder I'm losing my pubic hair.
The holes in my ass through which gas must pass,
Causes decibels because it's small.
So at least I can hear my fart, it's an art,
Decapitated smell never me, that's all.
But this is Suvro, I shoot my shit like a whore,
Ain't gonna let a shit bit worry me some.
I'll fuck the billion XBB dot one dot sixteen,
And on their collaborating face I'll cum.
You wanna see some pluck, I make you suck,
And "Corona fucking bitch," I noisily pitch.
The shit you say might hit the fan,
I shit in your spherical mouth without a hitch.
And if I die, well, good riddance,
I welcome my kith and kin the carrion king.
They would skin me first to the red flesh,
And then to the bones and then nothing.
But other than cannibalistic use,
There's nothing in a bank or anywhere.
Just a few underwear and boxer shorts,
Tattered shirts and invisible angst I wear.
Dreams I could never reach, my scrotal peach,
My rubbery and hairy asshole.
This birth was a waste, like semen paste,
That's about to be flushed down a toilet hole.
The wistful spirit wouldn't wish someone cared,
It wouldn't matter I'd be on a murder spree.
I'll hunt down every organic matter that did harm,
I'll set them free.
Once they are ghosts I'll fuck their ass,
Yes corona you too,
I'll make you suck my shit smeared cock,
Then I'll flush you down devil's loo.
And with every swirl of a turd, there'll be a bird,
I call it fuck you cuckoo.
It will sing a fart, and with that will start,
The destruction of this human zoo.
What's the ideal clique size? Well, computationally, it's not polynomially bounded, and given that very few of us have anyone to talk our hearts out to, it makes it a problem only for the future artificial superintelligence.
In Kolkata specifically, tempers run amok. There's a lot of vitriol and spit, and I go deaf. The situations are inescapably close; not only are you forced to share the decibels and stray saliva floating your way, but you can almost feel the warmth of animosity or the offending fart.
I caught a virus—an inevitable thing that happens to the immune-compromised Skinner's rats. I point my finger in accusatory chagrin at the sniffling weaklings that I suspect were the obnoxious vectors.
Anyway, it's a good thing my clique size is zero, and I have no chance of passing it on to the rest of the population. And since my sojourn is limited to the alleyways in my limited imagination, I don't think it would be a stretch to say that I disappoint this lineage of viruses that have infected me. Had I been a social bee, by now half the direly oppressed town would have another onus and set of loose snots to worry about.
