O man of infinite chest,

Give us today a surgical strike

On penury, disease, lynching- death,

From petrol and diesel hike.

 

Those you struck across the line—

They have no gratitude for lesson taught;

Their perfidies only redouble

The more their perfidy is caught.

 

But we will sing like caged birds

Should you strike our predicaments;

From what we see you do not seem

Intent on those internal fronts.

 

Not long ago your stylish words

Fed us charm at the expense

Of the elementary things we lack,

Holding captive our common sense.

 

Alas, the charm has fizzled out.

And words do not meet our fears;

Give us this day a surgical strike

That tells us the country still is ours.

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