Cromwell
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- May 4, 2025
O, how I long to don the garb of Ind!
To gaze upon mine arms, lean and swart as dung,
With a belly rotund, a paunch of ample girth.
Let a beard, black as jet, unkempt and coarse,
Sprout as wild pubes, with hair long, greased, and dark.
Let mine intellect, once keen, be dulled by fifty points,
Mine English tongue, now eloquent, decay to Indian phrase,
With accents strange, to mimic that far land’s cadence.
O, let my mind grow dim, unable to grasp consent’s fair bound,
Yet harbor thoughts lascivious at the sight of womankind,
Be they in flesh or on the screen, of any hue or race.
Let my stature shrink, that I must crane to meet
The eyes of women not of Indian stock.
Kindle in me a zeal, fierce and nationalistic,
A fervor rabid for mine adopted realm.
Before a cow, mine idol wrought in stone, I’d bend,
Partaking of her dung and quaffing of her piss.
Let me scorn those beneath me with spite and haughty air,
Yet fawn and flatter those above with servile grace.
To lie, to cheat, to steal, to scam, to double-cross,
With ne’er a pang of conscience to stay my hand.
In open streets, sans shame, I’d void my bowels free.
O, to be Indian, in truth, I’d be!
Hail, Hind, triumphant cry!
