by Harman Mavi
What’s all this fuss; he’s not that good.
Why do we raise him to sainthood?
He said too much and he must pay.
The author’s rights, I must allay.
I’ll burn his book and grab his mike;
Free speech only shields what I like.
If flights of fancy set you free,
I’ll clip your wings with great hurry.
Just speak of poverty and woe,
Mimic the work of great Rousseau.
Where is the great art of today?
The world’s evils who dares display?
The modern writers work for wealth;
Foul capital ruins their work’s health.
The greats of yore lived just on praise.
Their time is gone; so just refuse
that Dickens fought for copyright –
Let Ghalib’s debts be out of sight.
The modern scribes are sub-standard;
Their heritage they have founder’d.
Just talk of Tagore, Premchand, and Mir;
To modern words, don’t lend an ear.
Free speech was meant for men long dead;
Who cares if new books die unread?
What is the rationale for speech?
You should not speak unless you teach.
A buffoon’s joke may create a laugh,
But more useful are dotted graphs.
I’ll only permit those textbooks,
Which don’t have a funny outlook.
And I love science; I really do;
But Adam lived in Eden too.
I do oppose the wrath of caste;
But to Manu, I hold steadfast.
Whate’er its flaws, at any rate,
You must not dare find fault with faith.
Yes, faith and science must co-exist;
But I decide how they should fit.
The astrologer is evil,
His cheating words, we must wrestle.
But prophets, you cannot refute;
The priests’ words you cannot dispute.
The media must be full of fear,
Hold its head low, and ne’er us smear.
It must not talk of Delhi’s rapes,
or my wrath it shall not escape.
No matter how heinous our crimes;
The country should still seem sublime.
Don’t talk about the Internet;
It breathes too free, to my regret.
It hurts women when it sells sex;
I must insist on proper checks.
I will not permit roasts or puns;
The net should be for facts, not fun.
I often wonder with dismay,
Where are the great men of today?
Nehru, Gandhi, Patel are dead;
We have a land of fools instead.
The rights of novel twits I dread;
It’d be better when they’re all dead.
Deny your rights – let me decide –
Whether your mouth can open wide.
You do not have the intellect,
The right endeavours to select.
Just agree and I’ll warranty,
The beauty of my tyranny.
