Yeshwanthpur Blues

The President flags off a fancy train
On the other side of the open drain
I hear the fishermen’s refrain
The fishes’ eyes are glazed in pain.
I stand there, soakin’ in the rain
Wonderin’ if they’ll come alive again.
But they’re jus’ being cut for curries and stews-
Oh, I got those ol’ Yeshwanthpur blues.

The Taj sets up a swanky shop
They’re going to pull out all the stops
On the roads littered with brooms and mops
Made from remains of slashed tree tops.
Those trees ain’t alive now- they’re just props
For shacks selling balm and our cough drops.
But they can’t stall the pain that begins to ooze-
Oh, I got those ol’ Yeshwanthpur blues.

The Institute raises its gate
And hangs out a fancy chrome plate
Announcing to all the execution date
Of trees, who in their silence wait.
The birds- they have no case to state
Flutter till the lorry sounds abate.
This ain’t the home that they would choose-
Oh, I got those ol’ Yeshwanthpur blues.

The Institute again is in the news
The revered scientist has blown a fuse
He’s hurling chemical abuse
Because he did not get his dues.
That shattered room once held his Muse
She’s fled, leaving behind her shoes.
She looked erudite but was just confused-
Oh, I got those ol’ Yeshwanthpur blues.