That butcher Su, she lived across the street
and spoke of dreams and an attractive call
so, she didn’t hang grotesque crap on her wall
and sold ethereal, divine, fine meat
She kept a tally of her patrons sweet
on an advanced white, velvety smooth wall
and strangely said dictators have to fall
but loved the bhadralok and them she’d greet!
Just Fugu, Sushi, Cemani, she’d sell
to wealthy families, and scream, Revolt!
But truth that kills a man, I lived and saw
and certain trees these butter knives don’t fell
I’ve learned to preach to masses and a ‘dolt’
I guess I like my steak cooked bloody raw.
© Nitin Lalit Murali (2017)