Oi, Kinniyaan Memaan Keetiyan Ne.

Paki Pappy,

1956,

You're 17,

Skin made of Calcsinter,

Smoking tobacco like an ox's orifice

Flatulating in the winter,

Your walk is the pace

Of a sprinter.

Paki Daddy,

Always sinful, always snappy,

You're the copper stained Adonis,

Your sexual drive's at its zenith.

You'll always be seventeen,

Your erections will always be

Steel hard

Lava hot

Gigantically obscene,

Your jet black scalp will forever be green,

But what do you know,

You arrogant germ,

You're blind to your future scene.

1959,

You've tasted the flesh of the desi kind,

And now your bored masculinity,

Still hircine,

Wishes the tang of a gori concubine.

So you reject the land of the clean,

You embrace the country of the Queen,

Where the waters are unalloyed,

The roads are pristine,

No more Kalsooms or Shubnas,

Modern girls are called Traceys,

Staceys,

They're called Christines.

Never knew your digery doo controlled you,

Never knew it was so strong,

'Cos when a Mem Saahib passed by,

It stood up and ordered you,

It's only natural,

There's nothing wrong.

Paki pops of the old generation,

Your future,

Your alcohol leaking circuits,

Never paid it any concentration,

Because you'd always be seventeen,

Time would never pay attention

To the blessed land of the Queen,

You'd get any job you want,

Your pectorals would always be lean,

There'd always be a money munching whore

On a stand by,

A Tracy,

A Stacey,

Or a Christine.

Look at those Immigrant Pakis

Working 9 till 9,

Don't they have a life,

They're slaves to their children,

Their jesters to their wives.

1969,

You've had enough of the Gori kind,

Now your bored masculinity,

Still hircine,

Wishes the spice of a desi concubine,

For you've swallowed many mashed potatoes,

Fish and chips no longer hold any charm,

It's the aloo Machli you seek now,

Kukar pulao and roghni naan.

So the Paki's mother destroys a virgin's life,

The prey is now Mr. Paki's wife,

Because Paki boys are actually sinless,

And a marriage dissolves all evil strife,

Shoved into a slave marriage,

Packaged as arranged,

Mehindi gals bark love songs,

As If true love was exchanged.

Life is good,

It's a clean slate,

The Paki's had his fun,

Good bye batchlor boy,

Make no mistake.

Two houses bought,

4 children later,

Your interest is waning,

But you can't be a traitor,

Your masculinity,

Reeks of spice,

You need the bacon and chips,

You need gin chilled with ice,

You're no longer seventeen,

You paunch hangs over the belt,

Your erections are a rotten banana,

Your hairy back's a carpet,

You scalp's half clean.

But you need to feel young again,

You want your joints well oiled,

You want to be pristine,

You want to impress the young ones,

The Staceys,

The Tracys,

The Christines.

You resort to your old ways,

To satisfy your phallus,

Kick the family to a house in Pakistan,

Didn't you call the hut

A Pakistani Palace,

I need some time alone you said

To think of business plans,

It's about time the children

Were taught Islam,

By the Mullahs and their clans,

Hello there bachelor boy,

Haven't seen you for so long,

It's good bye to the spicy pong,

Time for the Traceys to feel my ding-dong.

Time snakes it's way through events,

Events snake their way through time,

Your house's been sold,

The money's gone,

Your flute's gone cold,

Your pearly teeth have morphed to gold,

Paki Pop

Guess what,

Then again you don't need to be told.

Your wife and kids returned years ago,

They've grown strong

As you once were,

But there's no turning back,

No apologies,

No reconciliation,

Your children have grown to loath you,

Those 9-9 working immigrants scold you,

Fenestrations of your 70 year old leather

As large as moon craters,

A face weathered,

A weather forecasted years ago

By your true friends,

Your Maters

Your Paters.

There's no going back now,

Your battery life registers another 10,

You'll then become a legend,

Example to weak Paki men,

The road ahead is cold.

_____________________________________________________ __________________________

This 60 minute piece is dedicated to all those desi idiotic men who came to the land of milk and honey during the Mid 20th century. This strain suffered from a severe inferiority complex and gave up its family, its culture, its children and wives, its colour and religion to 'do' a Mem Saahib. Apologies for the bad poem style but I hope you enjoy it.