A time comes
they beat their gongs in grins
and generous palms.
Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang!
The rattles spread round the city
then, we assemble ourselves
with starved bellies.
Their manifestos unfurl,
we see the punctures in them
yet we follow
because they smear a relief
on our never tiring hunger.
After sometime,
we become town criers,
ones, drenched in tears.
We beat our gongs now
with bulgy demands
Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang!
The media piggybacks
the rattles
but neglect is the
dungeon they fall into.
