The attire is white, orange, black or brown,
Scalp is covered with a cap or a turban,
Faces are shaven or bearded with moustache,
These men are forced to live what we dispatch.
Their hands are held with the tools they wanted,
The markers, scalpels, mouse, scales and red wines,
They are so efficient in the art of deceptions,
Masters of manipulations, the kind hearted words worth.
When the pilgrimage is not done, the beds are rocked,
When the bells are not rung, the sleep is not disrupted,
A moment in life is the moment to cherish and preserve as the pickles,
The livings enjoy while the dead of misfits are buried as the wicked.
The osteoporosis back bends a little bit,
when the sainthood awaits at the door step,
when men stop hallucinating multitudes of breasts,
this earth will stand still and the women may not rejoice.