In the holy city of joy,
The marts are full of farts.
A trail of lights when lit,
The gas a fire starts.
Hindoo moslem jiminy fans,
Their gas mix as one.
When the fire starts spreading,
It's always a secular fun.
It's usually in the wee hours,
When stomachs are puffing fire.
Most rush out harried by wife,
Interrupted shit, hence full of ire.
Hydrogen bengali sulphide our pride,
The smell will cure the sick.
Happy the months of winter,
Fire is warm without a wick.
Salt Lake for good food sake,
Is as expensive as it's airy.
It's not just the gents I blame,
Often a bengali fat fairy.
Undigested beans and rice very nice,
I am a devotee of that smell.
Sulphurous and pious, burning anus,
Curry holes but fragrant as hell.
