O Mummyji, o mummyji, they don’t fight fair
Their boys, their girls, their women too
They throw their stones, they do, they do,
And us poor boys (what? yes, “my poor boys”)
Have only guns and armour
What, prithee, are they to do? to do?
We shoot them down, we do, we do
But they fire back, they do, they do:
Words, pictures, and yes stones too
And on occasion a flying shoe
O Mummieji, o mummieji
Help me sort out these Cashmirie.
They talk only of Azadie,
These stones-for-hire Cashmirie,
Then tell me, what’s a poor boy to do? to do?
Bofors we have, and LMGs too
INSAS, tear gas, AFSPA too
We thunder and boom, oh yes we do,
But they still swarm, they do, they do,
These ungrateful, unmanly Cashmirie.
Yes unmanly, so unmanly, these Cashmirie
Women and children, Mummieji!
O give them guns—now that’s an idea–
(I’ll talk to WAR, I will, I will)
And we’ll mow then down, we will, we will
That’s how men fight, big guns and all,
That’s how we beat the Chinese and all.
(We didn’t? but Papa says we did, we did
I believe Papa, big chest and all,
He knows us men, he’s big and tall
At least he was, before the fall).
So bless me now, O Mummieji,
And let me at the Cashmirie
And so learn how to do it best
And one day we can thrash the rest
(–who? why Mizos and Nagas and Dalits
and Naxals and Tamils and Bengalis too,
the lesser denizens of the Indian zoo—)
Let libtards natter about democracy being messy
I’ve gone one better, and called this war dirty
(what, we’re not at war against our own?—
Ah Mummieji, women don’t understand,
Why its important I take a stand—
The jeep and the shalbaf spun me around
And now I must, must stand my ground)
So bring on the guns and a few bombs too
And I’ll rise, I’ll rise, I’ll rise to the occasion
And when the dead are done, and the crisis renewed
I’ll park my car in a Governor’s station.