Hardik Vaidya (26 Dec 1969, yet to kick the bucket. / Mahuva, Gujarat, India.)
Why Aliens Don't Contact Us
A despot in Iraq, spun an antique gun,
Shutter bugs went wild,
Uncle Sam lost his usual supreme mind,
Thought it was the sci-fi gun,
Which was waiting for an invention,
And Saddam stole it from his barn,
And fixed it right by a kick on its back side.
An administration dripped in perspiration,
Lost its bearings and pulled the trigger.
Forgot that it was a rumour created for titilation,
Marketed well dressed to be a killer,
Wearing a neck line steep as a V
It was called the WMD.
Earthlings are universal on earth,
And therefore its not the cradle of Babylon
Or the beacon of freedom alone that is worth.
Not so long ago, here back at home,
An administration sent troops to Srilanka,
Thinking Ravana was sipping coconut,
In the island south of our protruding stud.
We ourselves are products of pieces,
Barely managing to hold this country in one single piece.
When we talk of India, we cannot forget our darling of yore,
Pakistan you too live on earth, and bear the earthlings soul.
Your politicians are powerful outside your borders,
Or living in exile,
Inside Pakistan they are yapping within Televisions premise.
Your blunder, you are yet to ask for thunder,
Borrow our politicians, a few will do,
Brains won't come there aren't any,
but muscle will be added to your parliament too.
To us it won't make a difference, a few more or less,
We won't notice a wink of a difference.
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