Our Poets

Those rotten volumes of eulogies and odes With a stink far worse than of toilets rank Causing earth to split, which Providence forebode Causing company of angels to blush in the heavens What has caused decline of Din and of knowledge Is the elegant tradition of denizens of our college. If writing bad poetry some punishment deserves If lies piled on lies is unpardonable sin Then the court which Allah as Qazi preserves Where the dividend for evil and good has been fixed All sinners from there will be forthwith released But our poets will fill all of Hell when deceased. The labourers and menials, the porters and grooms Prosper in the world by earning their wage Singers earn patronage of the affluent and bloom Even tambourine players get a fee when they ask But bad poets, sick with this chronic malaise Which ill are they cure for? By Allah's grace! If water-carriers leave, all of us would expire The clothes would be dirty if washermen quit How would we survive if all servants retire? If sweepers moved out, the towns would be filth But if our poets would en masse emigrate 'We're rid of bad rubbish,' we'll happily state.