K.Jo's Message to Bush

Muckshay's Independence Day PJ

Disclaimer: Patriots, please don't overwork your heads. This is just a joke. If you have a problem, don't comment, abuse me at akshay.bhu@gmail.com.

Q.What do you call artistes like Britney Spears, Jennifer Lopez, and Christina Aguilera, who are free from all inhibitions?

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A. Swatantra Divas

Parliamentary Bloodbath

Spread the Word

Screw-Ups- IV: Haraami by Stale Ham

Disclaimer: Eddie Vedder is deeply attached to this song, and I respect his emotions. This poem is not written to mock Jeremy or his tragic end.

At work, peeling stickers,
Off every box, sits in the shop,
Selling yellow buns, Charms and Ganesh Bidi,
The bread lay, in pools of green below,
The Baddie didn't give attention O,
To the fact that the expiry date
Was last January, the dickhead sold those goods now,
Haraami sells his old stuff today.

Shirley was a member, picked stuff for her boy,
Beamed at saving a little buck,
But she unleashed the poison,
Stained his teeth and got a swelling in his chest
When he ate nuggets.
His school had a surprise test,
His gut was burning,
Eyes were swollen,
Just dropped away,
Dropped like an injured bird.

Laddie didn't give attention,
To the fact the stuff smelled stale,
Poor Kennedy, the brightest, ruined his year now,
Haraami sells his old stuff today.

Fry the tid-bits,
Fry to clean things,
From the bad food.

Haraami sells his old stuff today.

Undermine

This is not funny.

Drop Your Coat O doctor,
We've got some work for you,
The king's gown needs a thousand stitches
Two to be made by you.

Leave your sword O soldier,
You've got a job to do,
The king has to butcher a thousand goats,
Two to be done by you.

Throw your brush O painter,
There's a lot of work to do,
The king's palace needs a thousand coats,
Two to be done you.

Don't go, son, to see the king,
He'll give you things to do,
Things that'll use all your skills,
But never give you your due.

Sorry Mama have to drop my coat,
Throw my brush and Leave my sword,
The king has pledged a thousand coins,
A string of pearls, a pot of gold.

The day belongs to the robot doctor,
Artists're an endangered lot,
Atom bombs used to pound foes,
We're down praying on our knees.

My Amul

Pharmula One

This is my longest poem thus far. You could call it a ballad; only, don't expect to get enlightened at the end. You're no Buddha and I'm no tree.Try to laugh; if you can't, abuse me and shut the page.

When Laloo became the PM of India
He went on a tour with his son Scindia
They went to Malaysia in the scorching sun
And were taken to see Formula One.

It was a tight and gripping race
Awe was writ large on his face
Then at last, at the final corner,
Leading the pack, was Michael Schumacher.

Laloo said "Arre Wah, Michael winned"
"Yes, he winned", repeated Scind,
Bernie said "Michael as usual,
'Tis always Michael, even without fuel"

"Ijitso?" he asked enquiringly,
"Everytime Michael wins only?"
"That's the power of Schumacher,
Makes him win year after year."

Laloo had a great idea,
Returning to Bihar, he called the media,
"Today I have made great desisan,
From next year we will have Pharmula One"

The announcement delighted Karthikeyan,
Chandok rocketed to 7th heaven,
Practice wheels scorched the track,
Novices hit that extra lap.

But the opposition hit a screeching brake,
"You can't dump the poor for fun's sake"
"Don't worry", said Laloo, "I thought it all out"
"It will not be an unfair bout"

Then one night he called the press
"This will be the racing dress"
He held aloft a milk white dhoti,
And a size number 8 Kolhapuri.

And that was not all for the gaping sribes,
Half the drivers were from local tribes,
But the biggest winner was the local cobbler
Because Laloo just wanted a shoemaker.

After the race, no bottles of bubbly,
Only a cabaret from Pados Ki Babli
And when he was asked about the price of cars,
He said "Huh! This is a race of carts"

An Ode to Indi Pop (with spl. references to HIM)

Hold your nose
Grow your beard
Wear a cap
And sing some crap.

Play a beat
Then repeat
Hold your nose
And sing some crap.

Pick up a pen
Enter your den
Kill your brain
Write some crap.

Countless hits
Housefull shows
A nation grooves
To repetitive crap.

It's bikinis
That sell CDs
Unclad models
Swinging to crap.

Hey Lata
Hey Sonu
Save our men
From this vicious trap.

Else we will
Be forced to swing
Forced to sing
This soulless crap.

Dull-All Street