the thug in the studio

A terrorist brandished his gun,
aided by the one
who provides the illusion
that this was a response to provocation

The one spews venom every night
mixing it in a nationalistic pill
bowing to his masters
who have not yet had their fill

He spins their vilest deed
takes in whatever they feed
his gods can do no wrong
faithfully he waters their hateful seed

The seed now in full bloom
our country shrouded in gloom
he carries on, his bark over-riding the mute button
meets his match outside the studio room

There is hope yet,
kitna bhi woh neeche keeche
light at the end of the tunnel
will prove to be more than a cliche

Hold fast people.