Don’t lose your shirt, the towel’s now to the fore
Pocketing one gently can make you pocket more
You just have to look skyward, and look for gold
Heavens will pour once you’ve bowled

That’s manna from the skies in God’s own country
All you need is loose balls in your inventory
But trouble comes some day when the police come calling
When it hurts more than an umpire’s no-balling!

Your sixers are sponsored, your catches are endorsed
Your coach is a jockey and your player is a horse
Can betting be far behind, legal or illegal?
Will bookies now not hover like Sydney’s seagulls?

Our lads were once broke, now they’re for Ladbroke
It’s all about big hits now, not the defensive stroke
Extra cover drives must be the ones to beat the cops
After you get paid to bowl delicious long hops!

Don’t say “It’s not cricket!” – that’s clearly old hat
We’ve now seen some slaps and mighty on-field spats
It’s not your father’s game, but a twisted version
to which old gentlemen have a marked aversion

It’s a milestone moment in a landmark poll
But alas, it’s taken a dramatic toll
Such is the state of Pakistan
Torn twixt Uncle Sam and the Taliban

A dramatic Mush, without his khakhi
Is no longer quite your fauji Paki
He flees the courts to play hide and seek
His style valiant but his wicket weak

A prosecutor killed in a brutal manner
While his eyes were on a murder scanner
A whodunit of political proportions
Murder in a murder case! Oh such distortions!

And then we have the Mighty Khan
Bowler of maidens, the wicked Imran
His pet tiger’s dead, his style turns empty
As he falls off a stage like Humpty Dumpty

Over now to the Prez, the one with a big moustache
Accused of taking Ten Per Cent in cash
His reign is shaky as voters get ready
It’s a wonder how for years he held so steady!

His offspring’s a mystery, famous for kisses
Of rumoured affairs and a political missus
Did he fight daddy with his Bhutto ways?
What’s his next? What will he face?

Yonder stands the roaring Sharif
All set to return as a mighty chief
But nothing’s certain in the Land of the Pure
It’s ways are so hazy, you can never be sure.

But congratulations are due Dear Pakistan
For finishing five years as a democratic clan
It’s the first time now, and hope not the last
It’s time now to drive tyrants to the past!

The tycoons are rich, sport impeccable suits
Then they land in trouble with lawsuits
But the company they keep is more than business
They flaunt their links with pride and finesse

Politicos and journos, babes and babus;
they build their empire, break some taboos
Oh, they grow, grow and still more grow
With much cash to spend, much wealth to show

Suddenly one day, the heat comes on
The courts come in as the funds are gone
Law enforcers start a wild goose chase
And a hunt begins with not much of a trace

Money from the poor makes them rich
Until the law notices some major glitch
The spotlight turns to searchlight now
These men seem to escape somehow

Welcome one, welcome all, to the Ponzi Republic
Much mud is thrown here, but it doesn’t quite stick
The law takes its course, the heat ebbs slowly
And the nation forgets the plight of its lowly

Taxpayers come in, to aid some victims
Noises are made about situations grim
We see some rituals and political whim
But catching the Ponzis? The chance is slim!

You see, dear reader, they have friends in high places
with smart lawyers who hide their disgraces
And old tycoons fade, or simply rebound
To resume their parties in charmed backgrounds

A new man surfaces to rip off new fools
He makes the poor poorer with fancy new tools
The schemes change names, or their styles
Promises are made with hype and guile

As a new con is named with crores and crores
The leaders tut-tut, media screams hoarse
Nothing really changes, but for the tricks
It’s a soap opera, this Ponzi Republic!

It’s your birthday today, and we wish you well
We love your deeds, this much we can tell
You lived out truly your warrior’s karma
Following the glory of Raj Dharma

(The term, you see, became a tad familiar
When a leader wanted to make it clear
to an acolyte accused of helping mobs
that he might need to focus on his job)

Your glory, dear Rama, was a true vote catcher
to them was what Falkland’s was to Thatcher
They erupted in rage to raze down a mosque
Aiming to make your temple their task

The thing’s now trapped in a web of politics
Twixt coalition troubles and judicial tricks
Meanwhile, the vote tree grew branches and leaves
See what glory your name achieves!

Sreesanth vs Bhajji, Gauti and Virat
Everyday now brings a brand new spat
We begin to wonder if some have sponsors
for colourful lads with cheering dancers

Dishoom-dishoom, (with some words on sisters?)
Gaalis and taunts, plasters and blisters
In televised glory, the boys do fight
With frequent barks – and the occasional bite

The captain’s a blonde, dyed like gold
He and Viru did play some shots bold
Ably watched by dubious administrators
Our fair game now is one of gladiators!

The democracy we have is not of Westminster
So cricket, you see, must also turn sinister
With plenty of fights and many discords
This is not the sport we knew at Lord’s

It is not cricket, then; it must be boxing
It is not a ground, sire, it’s a darned ring
Oh what they’ve done for money and fame
totally screwed up the gentleman’s game!

But he’s the first to say he’s no messiah
Such fine modesty as he goes higher
A perfect trait if you already have power
when fans are ready with praises to shower

Behold the lad! He is soooo cute
Starch-white khadi a dimple to boot
Speaking like a preacher among blue suits
Unmindful of the online hoots!

You see, this Rahul is a Reluctant Prince
His mere name makes his baiters wince
Anointed to the top in the ways of a dynasty
He’s used to high praise and jeers from the nasty

Look at his nonchalance! His walk is a jive!
He calls his nation a buzzing beehive
The elephant theorists now feel stung
Compare his words to bovine dung!

“A billion people,” he says with style
“need no horseman fix” – and we see guile
Is he setting a cat among the pigeons?
To provoke a hero from the Western regions?

Ah, but he is from The Family, let it be known
Name-calling’s not on where he has grown
They do it subtly, and let sidekicks interpret
The media explain and the Opposition fret

The enigmatic speech is like a Mona Lisa smile
Or a Piccaso painting with cubist tiles
The pragmatic would look at his actions instead
Especially the wise, not propaganda-fed!

The shoe! The shoe! The shoe!
–a splendid thing in motion
No weapon of mass destruction
But just one to show an emotion

Ahmedinejad, Omar and Zardari
Kejriwal, Gilani, Rahul and Wen
Different folks they really are
–but all victims of Shoe Zen.

Desperate act for disparate leaders
It invokes smiles and frowns
Delights pranksters, inspires cartoons,
yet does not shake the crowns.

It’s not a bomb they find on you
When they check, scan or frisk
It does not make you a terrorist
–as weapons go it’s low risk

It sure beats a hunger strike
A sit-in, slogan or picket
So TV-friendly this thingie is
in the crowded media thicket!

Must wonder now about a certain Marcos
Whose ghost must answer a Q
His wife Imelda had so many at home
Was this some marriage glue?

Poor Mr. Murdoch, he got a pie
The shoe finally got a break
Ms. Deng who moved to shield her man
must tell us: was it a good bake?

Will cakes and pies replace the shoe
Like the Net did our ole letter?
Tastier now the protest may get
And the victims might just feel better!

He loves his babes, and a fiery toy
He’s only a Munna who looks like a Bhai
He’s just your Bollywood’s regular guy
A Mumbai ka chokra, with a dash of Dubai

He needs some time, he needs some hope
Though it’s true that he once had dope
(He won’t let his daughter act like his did
Such a good dad he is, so splendid!)

If you only had the heart to feel
And ignore his talk with Chhota Shakeel
You’ll find a man with a golden heart
Playing that role in a big-screen part

There are many to plead, to save his fate,
give him a nice character certificate
They see on him an innocent face
and proceed to present their inspired case

“With his roles he did us all regale
spent many years already in jail
Isn’t that enough punishment for the lad?
After all, his intentions were not quite bad”
His thoughts are nice, his feelings are true
Enough to stir a Bachchan or a Katju
They will move the media or the august House
And make their pleadings a famous grouse

Such thoughts however, are not for all
The victims in Kashmir are not that tall
And Chhatisgarh’s unknown, Manipur too far
(Not to speak of the remanded in Tihar)

We are happy they see a Munna in the Bhai
We wish him freedom and life’s lil joys
To forgive or pardon is a wonderful thing
But justice it must for all bring.

Apologists for Bollywood’s Bad Boy
Must stretch the hearts they duly deploy
If they don’t pause to think of all
Like Humpty-Dumpty they’ll have a great fall.

They killed our fisher folk
Our poor boys were out at sea
And here they go these sailors
Back home, it seems scot-free!

We love Italy and Italians,
Their pasta and antipasti
But when they ditch our court’s orders
it all does turn nasty!

We know they’re good at fashion
Their Ferragamo and Versace
We love their ravioli
Their lasagna and their gnocchi

We love our pizzas (with paneer)
Arty films by and Fellini
But that is no excuse to hoodwink us
Did you hear that Signor Mancini?

We have had our Italian troubles
This escape is not quite new
We went hunting across the globe
Looking for a Mr. Q

They can’t escape to Rome
We’ll fume like the Vesuvius
Now their international laws
Seem so utterly dubious!

Oh, their slippery ways
We saw it in their Berlo
The guy who chased teeny babes
Said: “Jo karna hai tum karlo!”

By Caesar! By Romulus!
In the name of Machiavelli!
You won’t do this dear amico
If you know the ways of Dilli

Return them now! Return them!
While you still have some hope
Or we’ll set our Mob after you
And complain to the New Pope!

South Mumbai’s rich and the poor of Gandhigram
Kolkata’s Dum Dum or Chennai’s Tambaram
Whoever they are, and wherever they are from
Queue up for goodies from Mr. Chidambaram.

The Finance Bill’s his, clause by clause
But spare the poor bloke, he’s no Santa Claus
He starts out on tricky terrain, ab-initio
With an abysmally low taxpayer ratio

Evasion is a pain, and avoidance a pinprick
MAT is a backstop and the surcharge is a trick
Borrowings will mean a frown from S&P
Fitch will ditch, Moody’s will turn moody

The deficit must be checked. Oh! Wretched Fisc!
But taxing the rich may bring its own risk
They’ll cry foul or flee to winsome tax havens
Leaving the minister groping with mavens

Touch the middle class, the media will scream
Less spending will spoil the rural dream
Pinch the tycoons and they won’t fund your party
Taxing corporates won’t make you a smarty

You gotta bat for FDI and woo the FIIs
For those cowboy Westerns take eye for an eye
They rattle the Sensex and crack up the Nifty
You must spend to grow but somehow stay thrifty!

So you want to be the FM? The job’s all yours
Just make sure you know the North Block curse
But blessings may come as you curse your fate
They may kick you upstairs to the President’s Estate!