When they walk, they run; when it rains, it pours,
Here’s a contrarian account of the metro of lores.
Since forever heralded as the City of Dreams,
Though in my face, its sheer overrating screams.
Time and again, hailed by one and all,
Is what The City’s Great Spirit they call.
A blast, while, brings us all together,
Yet during the polls our bedrooms we prefer.
And, oh, that celebrated local rail,
Where we shove around old ladies frail.
If you’re not knocked cold by the elbow in the rib,
The pungent body odour ought to do the trick.
The streets turn to Venice, yet the taps run dry,
The city seems cursed by the albatross’s cry.
And while we wrinkle noses at that logged smelly gutter,
Still out there for public display, is the next star son’s diaper.
Emaciated bodies shiver, under the cold night’s shroud,
Thank God for Thackeray’s hoarding, watching over them proud.
And if an icon’s big car, must intoxicate itself out of way,
Well, rags don’t really count as people. Do they?
We may not hold a record, for the prosperity or the income,
So what? We’re famous too! We have the biggest ever slum!
And its not like we’re full of inequalities glaring,
What still binds us together, is our shared lack of clothing.
Though the wine glasses clink, late into the nights,
I’m sorry – all I see, is the scarred shore’s plight.
Though the glamour abounds and the red Ferraris gleam,
I’m sorry – in my face, Mumbai’s overrating screams…