There’s blood on your hands!
Why should I spend so much on fuel?
Ask that now and you’re in for a duel
Four years back questioning was cool
Shut up & pay up, now that’s the rule!
The crude prices are high, the masters cry
Now I have no oil; not even for beef fry
One way or another the holy cow is saved
Now that was our plan, the masters rave
They came into my kitchen; they came into my bedroom
They shouted Love Jihad and took away my groom
They told me what to eat; they told me what to wear
First comes your religion; they made me swear
They told me not to read, not the written word
Oh! They know the pen is mightier than the sword
Now, only B-grade moviemakers have right to write
Rest are all Urban Naxals; oh, what a plight!
North Korean media will shout out loud
Look, the masters are making India proud!
They’ll blame the Dynasty and all their kin
They’ll try till you forget about acche din
We chose new masters to fight our wars
Now my poor cousins are nursing scars
They were beaten blue in the name of beef
But to hell with them, it’s not our grief!
Is this the development model that we wanted?
Where are all those who earlier felt daunted?
Something tells me development was a ruse
It was always about religion, don’t be amused
Mandir was promised to woo all you fanatics
It’ll never be built, my dear, stupid lunatics
They bloody well know you all are fickle
You’ll vote anyone for one extra nickel
There’s blood on your hands, my dear voter friend
Your god won’t be happy when you meet him in the End
