Oh say can you smell, by the dawn’s early light,
That glorious stench from the streets every night?
Where the proud Indians squat, with their asses so bare,
Dropping hot curly logs in the open-air.
And the curry-fart rockets, the diarrhea’s bright glare,
Bombay’s gutters o’erflowing, the splatter everywhere!
Oh say does that turd-spangled banner yet wave,
O’er the land of the street-shitters, and the home of the brave?
On the shore, dimly seen through the thick yellow haze,
Where the brown babies play in the puddles of waste,
What is that which the breeze, o’er the toiletless plain,
Wafts the scent of a million unflushable stains?
Now it catches the gleam of the noon’s raging sun,
As they scoop with bare hands when the wiping’s not done!
’Twas the poop ever there, on the Ganges so brown,
Where they bathe and they drink where the turds float around.
Oh say does that turd-spangled banner yet wave,
O’er the land of the street-shitters, and the home of the brave?
When the call center scammers shall scam no more,
And the tech-support lies finally rot on the floor,
May their bodies be cast where the cows freely roam,
To be shat upon daily by pilgrims back home.
Then rejoice, mighty India, your destiny’s poo!
Let the world smell your glory in every curry stew!
Yes, that turd-spangled banner forever shall wave,
O’er the land of the street-shitters, and the home of the brave!
